


A Bed of Thorns - Part One: Bride Price

by Nym



Series: A Bed of Thorns [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: ABoT 2.0, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28954272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: His price is her hand in marriage.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: A Bed of Thorns [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123715
Comments: 97
Kudos: 110





	1. No Princess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/gifts).



> A Bed of Thorns version 2.0. Here we go. Getting this online will be a very slow process, so if you don't enjoy works-in-progress, please avert your gaze 'til I've posted the last chapter! The original WIP version remains online to preserve the community that grew up around it.
> 
>  **[nym-wibbly.dreamwidth.org](https://nym-wibbly.dreamwidth.org/)** \- my ramblings about writing ABoT 1.0 and 2.0 have their own tag categories.
> 
> **For Luthien, because. So much because, dear friend.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible war is coming.

With war on the horizon, blood-red like a nightmare sunset, the people still danced and sang. They baked bread and ate together, making the most of whatever time they had left. Elders passed. Babies were born. Life went on in defiance of the oncoming war. But the ogres were never far from anyone's mind.

Men talked of battle, keeping their weapons sharp. Those without weapons sharpened tools or sticks, ready to defend their home—their family. No-one spoke of surrender, for to surrender to the ogres was to die a merciless death.

People married.

Belle always knew her own time would come. There'd be a suitor, a dowry, then a wedding. Her mother often spoke of love, but Mother was gone now. Papa spoke of duty. Of necessity. Belle's hand in marriage in exchange for an alliance. Belle's dowry and inheritance in return for a proven knight and his army.

Sir Gaston would fight for her home, and Belle would give him sons.

With less than a month before the wedding and the red haze of the war creeping ever closer to her town, Belle wasn't sure they'd even live to taste the wedding cup. Gaston and his men had made a difference, that was true, but it hadn't been enough. She'd already failed to protect her people.

Papa had aged ten years in two, taking the bad news to every family of the fallen himself. He saw to it that there was a pension for every widow and a home for every dependent. Their town cared for its own, had done its duty, and helped defend the kingdom from the ogres, but now the war was coming for them. Had all the sacrifice been for nothing?

Old books recorded the last time the ogres came in force, hundreds of years ago. That war lasted decades. Belle had already wrung every book in the district dry searching for one detail: how mankind defeated the ogres before. That first war ended overnight after years of stalemate. No-one knew what finally drove the ogres back.

History should have given them more answers. Belle's father tolerated her quest through the kingdom's libraries and castles in search of… _something_. She'd been so sure of finding something, some clue, but it was as if a page was missing from history itself. There should have been _something_.

Fewer ogres were on the march than before. Belle learned that much, bringing her findings home to the council. But their side had fewer troops as well—even another prolonged stalemate was too much to hope for. A single ogre could destroy an unarmed village in minutes. Twenty could level a fortified town with its garrison of bowmen. Thousands of ogres were advancing, while soldiers spent their blood and their lives merely to delay the inevitable.

They'd buried too many fallen sons. Worse, they'd held remembrances over last letters and treasured keepsakes instead of a coffin because there hadn't been enough of a soldier left to bring home. Ogres liked to gnaw the bones.

That was all anyone really knew about them—about why they invaded lands they had no use for. Belle's books were silent on that point as well, and this time not because something went unmentioned, but because nobody had thought to ask the question in the first place. What did the ogres want? They didn't plunder the land; they destroyed everything in their path, taking only as much food as they needed. They didn't occupy territory having conquered it—they moved on and conquered more. They acted like a force of nature and, it seemed, were equally unstoppable.

Such tales as returned with the carts full of wounded soldiers offered no answers and spread despair. One boy, drunk on opium and grief, shouted out that fighting the ogres was like pissing in the wind. His steadier comrades silenced him, apologising for him, and scolded him for using such words in front of their princess.

Belle was no princess. The childhood nickname stuck with her into womanhood, though these days people said it with a grin and a wink. She was a knight's daughter, her mother of distant royal blood, but marriage would soon change that. As Sir Maurice's only living child, Belle's dowry included a rich inheritance of land. Enough to tempt the Duke of the Frontlands into offering his son. It delighted the townsfolk that Belle could soon be one step away from the throne. They revived the pet name and used it, only half teasing her.

Princess or not, Belle _was_ a gentlewoman, bred to a world of books and duty. She'd had to stop and think what the wounded boy meant by 'pissing in the wind'. That they might as well try to turn the tide with their bare hands, she decided; that they might as well plead with a hurricane as battle the ogres—a lost cause.

But they had to try. If Belle's own sacrifice was to marry a man she didn't love, she wouldn't shirk her duty. Not while others gave their lives. Sometimes, she imagined going to fight instead. Women fought in the last war. Children, too, when adult numbers dwindled—that was how they held the line. The old books recorded that much. By the end, the Duke was conscripting the children.

Belle was no more a warrior than a princess, but she did wonder sometimes—usually after spending any length of time with her betrothed—if she wouldn't rather contribute by fighting the ogres face to face. She supposed that she could fight if she had to, that anyone could, but the only way to stop an ogre was to kill it. Could she do that? No. Not when, in her heart of hearts, she believed there must be another way.

Gaston never spoke of the war in her presence. She and Gaston hardly spoke at all. He thought talking was a waste of his time—listening even more so. Listening to a woman... Belle did watch him, though, and listened to him with the other men. She was a fixture of the castle and her father's confidant. If she sat quietly with a book or some sewing, the men didn't think to shoo her away. They didn't think about what she overheard.

Her future husband wasn't a wise man or a clever one. Gaston mistrusted clever people and book-learning. He looked down on the servants and guildsmen of Belle's town. He was handsome if you liked that sort of thing—tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed. A soldier through and through. Slight of build and short of stature herself, Belle had to crane her neck if she wanted to look Gaston in the eye. She didn't much care for what she saw there. There was something hard behind the courtier's charm.

One evening, Belle sat in the shadows to overhear the council of war. Her father leaned heavily on the big table, busy with the other men over the details of a worn map. Their alliance once stretched from their coastal town up into the mountains; their network of beacons, runners and post riders connecting a hundred miles of allied territory. It was all gone, just as many of those towns and villages were in ruins—women and children fled, the men gone to fight. No-one could spare the resources to defend an empty village, but Belle looked at the map and saw the devastation in terms of people's lives. Futures. The loss of hope.

"Ten thousand skilled fighters couldn't keep them back," her father groaned, knocking another castle from the map. There were no more garrisons left before the ogres reached their province. "And we have only hundreds."

It was a stark truth that Belle hadn't heard spoken before. Everyone here must know it, fear it as she did, but nobody _said_ it. Saying it made it real.

Gaston scowled, without quite directing the look at Belle's father.

"We drove these monsters back before. It's been done."

"In songs! In stories! And isn't there always some great hero with a holy sword? Some great sorcerer to grant a wish? We have only steel, boy. Steel, and too few men left alive to make it count."

Stiffening at 'boy', Gaston stalked away with a derisive snort, his gloved fist gripping the hilt of his sword.

The shocked silence had a song of its own. Belle heard it as a counterpoint to the frightened pounding of her blood. The shuffle of a boot. A nervous cough.

"Then, we need to find a hero." Belle tensed in her chair as stern eyes searched her out, every man in the room noticing her at once. She hadn't exactly meant to say that aloud, but the thought got away from her. It was too important to go unsaid. "We have to at least try. Try everything!"

They stared as if she'd grown another head.

She might be ignorant of battle tactics, but she wasn't _ignorant_. Her words filled the dreadful void left by her father's admission of despair. _Someone_ had to! Shoving her sewing behind her, she stood up and faced them all. But it was her father she looked to.

"Papa, if we've tried everything else then we have to try something new. And quickly." She gestured to the map—the cluster of castles and villages still standing. "If a hero with a holy sword is what we need—"

"There are no heroes," Gaston spat. "Only men who fight and die."

"You're wrong!" Her indifference towards Gaston sharpened into something nearer dislike each time he spoke to her that way—as though she _shouldn't_ speak, or read, or ride around the kingdom visiting the places where knowledge was kept safe. "There are dragon slayers, objects of power! It doesn't have to be a sword. In Mother's library—"

"Not in these lands, Belle," her father interrupted. He had that look that he got whenever he thought he was saving her from herself—and himself from the embarrassment of a hotheaded daughter. "Even a hero couldn't defeat so many ogres."

"Magic, then." Belle looked at no-one but her father. _He_ would listen to her. "Magic can do anything."

"Magic was banished from this kingdom!" Gaston reddened with fury. "For good reason. You don't know what you're talking about."

Belle took a step towards him and answered hotly,

"Maybe that's why nobody wrote down what happened the last time we defeated the ogres. Your family burned them at the stake before they could!"

"That's ancient history!"

"That was rather the girl's point," muttered Arnos, one of the council elders—dark-skinned and white-haired, these days had aged him even more than Papa. An outbreak of throat-clearing and coughing covered everyone's embarrassment.

"Yes," Belle said undeterred. "It was. We can learn from history. We should!"

"That's enough!" Gaston came to her side, grabbed her by the elbow, and propelled her towards the double doors. The guards opened them without awaiting his order. "A council of war is no place for a lady. You have a wedding to prepare for."

Belle found herself outside in the passage, fuming as the doors slammed shut in her face. She wanted to hammer on the wood, to shout, but who knew what Gaston would do if she defied him? His troops were the only chance this town had. There was a price for that help. If he tired of her...

Avoiding speaking to anyone, Belle went up to her room. It had always been her refuge, but these days she tended to find it full of wedding preparations, so she tried to stay away. The dressmakers had installed a full-length mirror, appalled that Belle had only a small one on her dressing table. She always seemed to be trying things on, choosing motifs, comparing lace, or standing still while someone stuck pins into her for yet another alteration. Marrying the son of a duke meant frantic last-minute additions to the modest trousseau begun by her mother. It meant a dress made of pure silk, having her hair styled like a courtier, and wearing enormous sapphires that belonged to Gaston's mother because her own simple jewels weren't grand enough to satisfy the spiteful Duchess.

At least her room was empty this evening. A new creation hung by the window for her inspection—a white nightdress. She'd given in about the silk wedding dress, the hairdresser, and even the borrowed jewels, but not about this. She'd have a plain nightdress for her wedding night. It was to be cool and comfortable to sleep in, without a scrap of lace, and roomy so that her husband could... so that there'd be no fuss when the time came to take it off.

Belle tried not to think about that – about sealing this bargain on her back, with a man who treated women like hunting trophies.

This nightgown was everything she'd asked for. Relieved, Belle fingered the collar and cuffs. No lace, but embroidered chains of pale daisies. She could live with that little nod to the skill of her dressmakers.

Belle knelt in front of the white leather chest that housed her trousseau—all the things made before her betrothal to Gaston, anyway. Before the Duchess sneered at what Belle's mother made for her. Linens, napkins, clothing for an infant, and much more. She was never allowed to open the chest as a child, except when her mother completed a new piece. Then they opened it together, and it felt like an adventure—a cave of wonders.

"You'll be a bride one day," Mama would say, the words dancing like a poem, sing-song. "Rock your babes, love your husband, and be his comfort and his strength. These will help."

Belle couldn't see how they would help. Her mother's books seemed a lot more useful than her sewing. And neither one could make her fall in love with Gaston.

She was getting ready for bed when Papa knocked on her door. Belle's maid let him in, glancing up nervously at his stern expression. Lotte was hopeless when anyone became cross, even if they weren't cross with her. If she stayed for this scolding, she'd be in floods of tears. Taking her shawl from the girl's hands, Belle gave her a reassuring smile.

"Go on to bed, Lotte. Goodnight."

With a grateful glance, Lotte scurried out. Belle wrapped the shawl around herself, feeling that she was too old for her father to see her in her shift.

"Belle." At least he'd wait until he had her alone to scold her, not belittle her in front of everyone the way Gaston had!

"I know," Belle began, holding up her hands in surrender. She didn't want to quarrel. Only a few more weeks and she'd be a bride; see her father only rarely. And that was if the ogres didn't eat them all first. They couldn't spend their remaining time together angry with each other. "It's not my place, nobody elected me to the council, books aren't the real world, a woman should be seen and not heard."

"That's not fair," Papa warned. Then he too tried to soften the tone of the conversation. "I was going to say," he went on, patience strained, "that I told Gaston never to treat you like that again, or he'll feel my boot up his backside."

"Oh." Ashamed, Belle looked down at her bare toes.

"You were heard today, Belle. You must know that."

"Not by Gaston."

"He'd argue if you told him the sky was blue," scoffed Papa. Both of them smiled, both smiles fading at the same time when their eyes met. "He's not the man I'd have chosen," Papa said. Something else he'd never said out loud before. "If lives weren't at stake, you wouldn't have to marry at all."

"But you'd keep trying," Belle said, wryly. Gaston was hardly her first suitor—just the first man she'd had any reason to consider marrying.

Papa sighed.

"Try to meet him halfway?"

"I do. I will." Halfway would never be enough, she knew Gaston well enough to be sure of that, but she'd try.

"Give the duke a grandson, and you'll be above reproach. You could even be queen someday if Prince James has no heir."

"Maybe I should be marrying him instead." Belle didn't mean the sarcasm. Papa wouldn't force her to marry Gaston. He simply laid her duty before her, knowing she'd make the right choice. "At least I'd have no mother-in-law."

"Belle—"

"It's all right. I don't mean it." Belle went to him. Touched his arm. "Just as long as I don't have to pretend with you that I'm happy about this. You know I'll do my best."

"Fair enough." With a sigh, Papa patted her shoulder. "I'm not happy about it either. You're worth fifty of Gaston. But soldiers never understand scholars. I never understood your mother, but I loved her. I _grew_ to love her."

"I know."

"War just isn't the right place for wishful thinking."

"Wishf—" Belle stared, not believing that he'd said that. "There has to be a reason why there's no record of the ogres' defeat. That's not wishful thinking, that's common sense! Something we ought to explore. You know people say, 'history gets written down by the winning side'? Well, it wasn't! Or it was wiped from the records later. And there's a reason, there must be! I say it's because they used magic!"

"I take your point," her father soothed, looking harassed. "I do, Belle. We heard you. Just... Leave it to me now, all right? Don't interfere. If this is our way forward, let it be on my head."

"Wait, you mean—"

"We _heard_ you," Papa repeated, gripping her by the shoulders, face wrenched by anxiety. "And whether we like it or not, we agree that you're right. But I'm not going to let you pay the price for it."

"The price?" Belle could hardly believe the council took her idea seriously. And over Gaston's objections! "Wait, what price?"

"Magic." Papa smiled grimly as he turned to go. "There always is one. Didn't you read _that_ in any of your books?"


	2. Bride Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal with the Dark One.

The first skirmish breached the outer walls. Only an advance party, Papa said, clutching Belle's hand amidst the confusion of the following dawn. Only a dozen ogres. They could repair and refortify before the main assault.

The market square became their gathering place, a hospital, and a mortuary all at once. Healers worked on the living while priests spoke words over the dead. Twenty weary soldiers hauled the corpse of a fallen ogre out beyond the town wall, but the stench of it lingered. No-one knew what they did with their dead. If the town survived this night, they'd bury the creature decently. If not...

It was the thought on everyone's mind. There was still time to evacuate to the coast—try to take ship for Arendelle or skirt the kingdom and seek refuge in King Leopold's lands. A few families left on carts, or on foot with their belongings in sacks over their shoulder. Most stayed.

Belle stood behind Papa as he addressed the people. Gaston was beside her in full armour, with the important men of the town all wearing their chains of office. They'd come to reassure, but Belle doubted that words would be enough. Not with that crack in the defensive wall looming over them and the smell of death in the air.

"It's been decided in council," Papa called out, his voice carrying easily across the square, "To send for a man who can help us. The price of his protection may be all that we can afford and more. I may need to ask much of you all." 

"Who can help us?" Dimitri, the blacksmith, spoke up, hopeful. He'd been among the first to volunteer when this war began—came home with only one arm. He spoke for the common people, often attending council so that their leaders always knew where everyone stood. He kept his two youngest children close to him in the jostling crowd, and he spoke calmly.

"We have sent for the Dark One," Papa announced. "You all know his name. We offered him a deal." 

A hundred gasps sucked all the air from the place. Parents scooped their children close against their sides. Dimitri's jaw dropped, and the whisper passed through the crowd. _Magic?_

Sir Maurice held up his hand, appealing for silence.

"He never breaks a deal. But his price will be high—we know that. I speak for this town. I will be the one to deal with him. If there's a price to pay beyond our gold, I alone will agree to pay it. Don't be afraid." 

Belle knew the name—Rumplestiltskin. Everyone did. He was the monster nursemaids spoke of to caution wayward children. He carried off babes in the night and exacted a terrible price for his magic.

_Him?_

She caught Gaston's eye and just this once they understood each other. This was no promise of salvation that Maurice offered their people; it was a last, faint hope when all was lost.

Emboldened, Gaston took a step forward to stand beside Belle's father.

"The Dark One may not answer our summons. He may not accept our offer of payment. We must still be ready to fight. The ogres will come in numbers _tonight_."

Dismay rippled through the crowd, a low moan that was a town's terror given voice. Papa glared sideways at Gaston, whispering something Belle didn't catch. Gaston grimaced, shoulders stiffening.

The people followed Sir Maurice, loving him as an honest and fair leader who had the ear of the king. He'd brought them all out here to reassure the people—to steady everyone for what must be done today. If nothing else, thoughts of Rumplestiltskin would distract them from panicking over the more immediate threat. Gaston was hopeless at taking charge where he couldn't issue orders. Nobody here needed telling that the hope Papa offered up was a slender one—a dangerous one. They needed to know that someone was doing _something_ : that other people refused to give up. Gaston would never understand.

"We _will_ be ready to fight," Papa said, raising his voice this time. "We'll defend our home. My knights and I would lay down our lives to protect any one of you. I swear it in the king's name and on the grave of my wife." 

Dimitri nodded, a simple man satisfied by a simple promise. Others around him noticed—calmed themselves. The tone of the whispers lifted, and people began to nod to each other.

Papa sighed in relief.

"Today we must repair the outer wall. Leave the damaged homes—we'll shelter inside the castle tonight. We've meat and drink enough for weeks of siege. Everyone is needed at the walls. Help the masons if you can—they speak with my authority, and they need willing hands and strong backs. If you can work iron go to Dimitri. If you can so much as carry a wineskin to a thirsty man, we need you today. We _need_ our outer walls."

The crowd dispersed, a few following Dimitri to his forge. Belle hesitated, not sure where she could be of any use. The maids and castle women looked to her to direct them, so Belle led them towards the wounded. They'd move everyone inside the castle when the healers gave the word, but for now, the extra hands could roll bandages and carry water to the patients.

Elena, Dimitri's wife, squeezed Belle's hand in welcome and sent the other women off in pairs—some to fetch cloth or food, others to nurse the injured or follow the healers, ready to do as they instructed.

"That'll keep them busy," Elena promised, still holding Belle's hand.

"What can I do to help?" 

Elena showed Belle how to wash the used bandages with lye soap and salt so that the dried blood would come out. The work made her hands red and left her nails torn, but she was grateful to be doing something useful. The drying strips of cloth fluttered in the breeze like faded banners.

For this one day, even the councilmen worked with their hands, helping to repair the fortifications. Papa commanded the fighting men to rest and eat well, to sleep if they needed it—to save their strength for nightfall. He smiled grimly to himself as he mixed mortar and carried it to the masons on the scaffolds, all rank forgotten. The unskilled served the skilled, uncomplaining. Even Gaston, proud Sir Gaston, carried stone all day. He returned to the castle as dusk fell with blisters on his palms and his stern face smeared with dirt.

It was the first time and the last time that Belle thought she could learn to love him.

~~~

The walls held through another night—blind luck. The ogres divided their forces, scattering across the farmland to scavenge for abandoned livestock. Numbers made the difference, just barely. It felt as though the castle would come down around their ears.

Belle slept a little as the small hours crept towards dawn, her body tired and her heart sick with dread. Sleeping to the distant sounds of battle had become ordinary in recent months, but never so close before. Never so fraught with the possibility of imminent defeat and death. Lotte and several other maids brought pallets to Belle's room, unwilling to sleep alone. Belle read aloud to them until they all fell asleep before lying down herself.

At dawn she crept downstairs without waking the others. She went down to the kitchen, meaning to send the cooks outside to serve everyone breakfast in the open. The head cook had anticipated her instructions. Cooks and scullions were already running to the walls and back with hot bacon and eggs for the soldiers on the dawn watch. There was porridge for everyone else—huge, steaming vats of it over the brick fire pit where they served spiced wine and cider at festival time.

The townsfolk who'd slept in the castle were stirring, sleepily moving outside to take their share of breakfast. Belle found her father asleep in the great hall, slumped sideways in his chair of office with his sheathed sword across his knees. Other men sat and stared into empty space or rested against walls with their eyes shut, saving their strength. They'd let her father sleep on.

Belle kissed his brow to wake him.

"Belle. Has he come?"

"No, Papa," she soothed, pressing her hand down on his shoulder to stop him getting up too fast. "Breakfast. Cook's seen to the men on the walls. We'll have to go outside with everyone else." 

"Good." Blinking sleep from his eyes, Papa patted her hand, then grasped and squeezed it. "You're a good girl, Belle." 

One by one they roused the other men and directed them towards the market square and breakfast. Bringing up the rear with Belle's arm through his, Papa cleared his throat and gave her an uncomfortable look.

"I spoke with Gaston when he returned from the walls last night," he began. Belle knew what he would say, stopping in her tracks and pulling Papa to a stop with her. He went on, hurriedly, before she could stop him. "We've agreed. If... if _he_ hasn't come by noon, or if he refuses to help us, then Gaston will take you away from here before it's too late. If you can't get out by land you can still go by sea—he has a ship waiting." 

"No."

"Belle..."

"No, Papa. Gaston isn't my husband yet. I won't go anywhere with him. I won't leave you!" 

"Belle!"

"If Gaston wants to take me away before you're safe then he'll have to drag me across his horse. This is my home, these are my people. If he wants to be part of this family, then let him fight with us. If he wants to go, he goes alone. I'm staying. And Rumplestiltskin _will_ come. I know it." 

She regretted her defiance when she saw her father's pain, but knew she was right. Even if she ran to safety today, how long before the ogres caught up? They respected no border. If this kingdom fell, then there would be a new front line somewhere else, and then another and another until _all_ the lands were overrun. Nowhere was safe unless they won this fight.

Papa shook his head, frustrated and sad, and unable to find the words to chasten her because he was proud of her as well.

"We'll discuss this later," he managed. "Right now, the people need to see us choke down a hearty breakfast." 

"Yes, father."

"Don't 'yes, father' me," he muttered, but Belle knew she'd won. He'd do the same thing in her place.

Once they'd eaten, Belle helped to feed the wounded. Her mother's library and the small chapel beyond it were now the castle's hospital—the largest well-lit space the healers could requisition. Many here would not live, and Belle's heart broke while she helped those who had no family to nurse them. A wounded man asked her to write a letter for him. Overhearing, others asked her to write out their wills, or notes to sweethearts. Belle did as they asked, kneeling beside their pallets with her mother's writing slope across her knees.

She was pressing a freshly folded letter into the last man's grateful hand when Gaston found her there. He pulled her roughly to her feet, causing several wounded men to call out in protest.

"I gave your father my word that you will live," Gaston grated, thrusting his face towards hers. His civility was barely a gloss over his rage. "Do you think me a coward looking to flee this fight? I gave my _word_ to keep you safe! We ride at noon." He released her, leaving Belle rubbing her sore arm and staring at him in disbelief.

"I don't belong to you yet, Gaston. I belong _here_. Her pride presented a softer face to the world than his, but they were evenly matched in stubbornness. Belle could see their future written plainly in Gaston's accusing glare. He would loathe her, and she him, and they'd be trapped by their duty for the rest of their lives.

Leave Papa's side for that? Live when everyone else perished for _that_?

Belle shook her head.

"Rumplestiltskin will come," she said through clenched teeth.

Gaston reddened with frustration and fury.

"Don't say his name!"

"It's just a name."

"You know nothing! Your town is finished. If _he_ does not come..."

"He'll come. He must." Belle folded her arms.

"Why must he?" Gaston gestured so violently that the wounded men hissed and groaned, thinking he'd strike her. Belle almost hoped he would—that they could stop pretending, right here and right now, and be honest with one another. Instead, he grabbed her upper arm and squeezed hard. "Even if he comes, it's not worth a debt to the Dark One. Nothing is worth that!" 

"They say he always comes when he's called." Belle's old nurse, a toothless and smiling woman who spoke little except to tell stories and riddles, had spoken of Rumplestiltskin. Stories weren't always written down, she'd warned; there were things you'd never find trapped in a book. Especially magic. Rumplestiltskin was the laughing, ancient demon who spun gold from straw and fathered the nightmares of the blameless. He snatched babes in the night and could devour your name. Desperation drew the Dark One like a wasp to jam. "So, he will come." 

Gaston's snort of disgust was drowned out by murmurs of support all around her. Visitors and healers nodded to each other. Some of the dying men smiled, comforted by her certainty. This was what it meant to lead a people— _this_. To have strength and hope as well as preparing for the worst. To stand shoulder to shoulder with them if the end came. To ease a fear, or write a comforting letter, when there was nothing else left to do.

One day, Gaston would be Duke of the Frontlands, the keeper of vast estates, his power second only to that of the king. His wealth greater than that of the king. Men would follow him, obey him—trust him with their lives. And Belle was supposed to love him and be his strength? To honour and obey this man? Was anyone that strong?

She couldn't look at him. Gaston stormed out with his back rigid, smarting at her public defiance.

"Watch yourself, Princess," said the healer's wife, darkly. "That's a man used to getting his own way." 

~~~

Noon came and went. Afraid that Gaston would actually throw her across his horse and take her away by force, Belle went up to her room to change her dress as the sun peaked in the sky. Everyone would see it for what it was, a ploy, but few men had the nerve to burst in on a lady while she undressed. Fewer still would force their way past an outraged maid, so Belle brought Lotte up with her and set her to guard the door.

Sensing her intentions or sharing her fear, other women came up to join them—to surround Belle and to guard her. For their pretence, they brushed and curled her hair, laced Belle into the golden bodice of her best gown and cleaned her room until every corner sparkled. They changed her bedclothes, made up her fire, and with all that done—when it seemed the danger had passed—they began to chat and tease one another.

Gaston never came for Belle. Her father didn't summon her, nor send men to take her against her will.

Noon became early afternoon and the kitchen women joined the group, bringing loaves and wine. Belle and the others took turns reading aloud from favourite stories, taking care to choose the ones where the heroes won the day. Everything was still, so quiet with everyone waiting, and with the sun streaming through her window and the pleasant company, Belle could hardly believe they were in danger. That they were out of time.

"My lady." Lotte approached with Belle's best necklace in the palm of her hand. Belle rarely wore it—it was too precious, having belonged to her mother. But Lotte knew her and knew that she'd want her mother's memory close to her heart today. If it was to be the last day. "I thought..." Her voice cracked, breaking the spell of quiet good cheer in Belle's room.

"Thank you, Lotte," Belle said, gently. She turned her back, lifting her hair so Lotte could fasten the fine gold chain at the nape of her neck. She fingered the tiny jewel at her throat and looked from face to face, from scullery maids to seamstresses, from the laundry girl to the mute woman who scrubbed the castle's stone floors. "Has everyone visited their family today?" Nods, sideways glances at one another. Firmer nods.

"He still hasn't come, my lady." Lotte's voice still wobbled, near to tears. They were all frightened, but Lotte never could hide her feelings or bury things for later. Sorrow or joy, excitement, or disappointment, she was always bursting with something. "Will he come? The Spinner?" 

Belle didn't know. She still believed it in her heart of hearts, but the shadows grew longer, the sun beginning to sink towards the horizon. There wasn't much time left.

"Why do they call him that, do you think?" Belle forced herself to sound cheerful and interested. She turned to the huge mirror the dressmakers had brought in, adjusting the necklace and tugging at the dress's low neckline. "The Spinner? Can he really turn straw into gold?" 

"We shouldn't speak of him." Aya, a kitchen maid, was dismayed. She looked around her quickly, as though she expected Rumplestiltskin to appear out of thin air. "The priest says it's folly to tempt him. Better the ogres than such wicked magic." 

"No!" Belle faced the women again, aghast. "We can't give up until we've tried everything. Not even then. If Rumplestiltskin can—"

"Can what, child?"

Gasps and cries filled Belle's room. They all looked towards the sound of that voice—a man's voice! Lotte clutched Belle's arm, trying to pull her away towards the door, but Belle stood her ground and faced the intruder.

He stood in front of the window, in silhouette, hands spread at his sides to show himself unarmed.

"How did you get in here?" Belle demanded, trying to keep calm. There was no way he could have entered by the door, slipped past them all.

"You called my name." His voice grated. A mature man's voice, but pitched high. Full of mockery and a childish slyness. A chilling precision. "Thrice!" He displayed his right hand in a dramatic flourish, bringing up the fingers, one-two-three. "And here I am." 

But, of course, she already knew who he was—who could do this. Her heart raced with fright, excitement, relief.

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"There you go again! That's my name, don't wear it out." He began to pace towards Belle, each step deliberate. When he came out of the shadows, Belle saw that he watched the other women, his busy eyes darting from one face to the next, his amusement growing. Behind her, Lotte and the others shrank back with whispers and moans, trying to draw Belle along with them.

Rumplestiltskin waved his hand delicately, a frilled silk cuff swaying as he sketched out a shooing gesture.

"The rest of you should probably run away." Shoo, shoo. Both hands. Black fingernails, green scaly skin. Belle held her breath.

"My... my Lady," Lotte pleaded, pulling hard at Belle's arm.

"Yes, go. All of you." If she commanded them to leave before they ran in terror, they wouldn't have to explain themselves to Papa if Rumplestiltskin turned her into a toadstool. "Quickly. Tell my father that he has come, just as we asked." She didn't tear her gaze away from Rumplestiltskin. He bowed to her—a lavish, elegant bow in the manner of a courtier—as the other women fled, their hobnails clattering all the way down the stairs.

"My lady."

Belle's knees quivered as she made an automatic curtsey in reply to Rumplestiltskin's mocking bow.

"Sir." She had to stop and take a breath. "Thank you for answering our plea." 

"What, this?" He shook out a small scroll with his left hand, sneering at it as the parchment unfurled to show the seal of her father's council. His hand had been empty a moment earlier. "No, dearie. I came because you called my name." 

"Me?"

"Three times, you called my name. Don't deny it." Rumplestiltskin waggled his right forefinger at her, the movement half hypnotising her.

She'd read that he was a demon that became trapped in the mortal realms, long ago. The horror of the notion crawled down her spine, raising the small hairs on her forearms.

"I don't..." Belle hesitated. Rumplestiltskin watched her closely, waiting on her reply. His name? But... yes! Hadn't she said his name a moment ago to quiet Aya's talk of priests? And to Gaston when he raged at her stubbornness? And... Oh, gods, yes! She _had_ said Rumplestiltskin's name three times today, and each time willed the Spinner into their midst with all the desperation of their plight. Wasp to jam. "I spoke _of_ you," she admitted, cautiously. Rumplestiltskin continued to watch her expectantly, her father's letter dangling from his outstretched hand. "I wanted to believe that you would come. That you could help us." 

"And here I am." His smile was a terrible sight, all cruelty and blackened teeth. His golden eyes were as hard as flint. "At your service." 

"Thank you, then." Her mouth kept getting drier, and her voice kept trying to shrivel up and die. "Thank you for coming, but my father is the one who—" 

"Offers me gold?" Rumplestiltskin raised his hand and regarded the letter again, wrinkling his nose at it. "But, you see, I _make_ gold."

Oh, yes. Everyone knew that, didn't they? Dizzy with breathless fright, Belle blinked and blurted the first thing that came into her head.

"How?"

"What?" Rumplestiltskin let the hand holding the letter droop. His patronising smile became a blank look, but he quickly regained his composure and picked up where she'd interrupted him. "No, no, gold won't do at all." He circled her with strutting, playful steps. Belle shut her eyes when he paused behind her, out of sight; she had to force herself to stay still.

"But... But you can help us?" 

"Yes, I can protect your little town." He said it into Belle's left ear, his sudden nearness making her jump and gasp. He moved so fast! "For a price." 

Footsteps thundered up the stairs outside Belle's room—heavy boots, shouting men. Rumplestiltskin completed his circuit and faced Belle again, a coy little smile returning.

Someone crashed into the door. It didn't open, which was odd since it had no lock. Rumplestiltskin's face cracked into a grin, and he giggled—high pitched and horrible, infantile, offensive.

"That'll be your handsome prince," he suggested. "Scream if you like, I won't be offended. He'll so enjoy rescuing you." 

"Belle!" Her father called for her, voice ragged with fear. "Belle, are you all right?" Frantic pounding shook the narrow wooden door.

"Shall I let them in?" Without waiting for her answer, Rumplestiltskin waved his hand towards the door. Men in armour spilled into the room, confused and disorganised. Gaston pushed through them to reach Belle first, favouring his bruised shoulder and wild-eyed with fury. He drew his sword and waved it at Rumplestiltskin, dragging Belle behind him with the other hand. She stumbled and glared at him, but Gaston didn't notice.

"Papa," she managed, trying to behave as if Gaston wasn't even there; as if the Dark One wasn't smiling placidly at her betrothed, completely unconcerned about the sword. Papa came to her side and slipped his arm around her, ready to shield her. "He has come to bargain, just as we asked. But not for gold." They should have remembered that. Rumplestiltskin was called the Spinner by those too frightened to speak his name. Everyone knew that what he spun was straw—that what he made was pure gold.

Sir Maurice tore his gaze from Belle and fixed it hard on Rumplestiltskin. Belle watched the colour drain out of his face, leaving him open-mouthed and sweating.

"My daughter—"

"Is my price," said Rumplestiltskin, each word clear and clipped.

Papa shuddered, almost hurting her he gripped her so tightly.

Belle had never fainted in her life, but for a second, she feared she might. She couldn't catch her breath around the shock, then when she did it sent a rush of dizziness to her head. Her vision swam, her pulse jumping into a panic. It felt like a physical blow, but it shouldn't have. Papa knew the moment she told him about the gold, didn't he?

"No!" Papa shuddered. Everyone else might be shocked, but Papa was only revolted. He'd tried to tell her. The price... The price he was willing to pay on their behalf. So that nobody else had to.

"The young lady is engaged," Gaston declared. "To me." 

"Lucky her." Knocking Gaston's blade aside with the flat of his palm, Rumplestiltskin put his back to the angry man. "Well, I won't leave you empty-handed. I'm sure her dowry will make you very happy. I want the girl, not the money." He fixed his gaze on Belle, who shrank a little before she remembered herself. She had to remember to be brave, like Mother had been brave. "Did you promise this dukeling your heart, dearie?" Gaston opened his mouth to speak; Rumplestiltskin made a dismissive gesture with his fingertips, a flick of magic, and Gaston mouthed in impotent silence, pawing at his throat. "Madam?" The Spinner's eyes never left Belle.

"My heart is my own." When everything else reeled around her, the truth was a rock to cling to.

Rumplestiltskin began to answer, but Papa cut in, putting himself between Belle and the intruder and breaking her line of sight.

"Your bargain is with me, Dark One. Exact your price from _me_."

Tiptoeing near enough for a confidential aside, Rumplestiltskin said behind his hand,

"You have need of my protection, that's true, but you're hardly my type. No offence meant." He pointed one black-nailed finger over Maurice's shoulder at Belle. "It's her or no deal." 

"Get out," Papa gasped. His armed guard moved to clear a path that followed the direction of his pointing finger. Shaking with disgust, he raised his voice. "Leave!" 

"As you wish." Rumplestiltskin sauntered towards the door, everyone pressing themselves against walls or furniture to make space for him. He tossed the scroll back over his shoulder as he reached the doorway.

"No, wait!" Belle broke free from the protective wall made by Gaston and her father, pushing in front of them both and facing Rumplestiltskin when he turned back with a knowing smile. "Wait." 

He inclined his head, waiting.

Belle took a deep breath, collecting herself. Hiding her fear even from herself. This was how her people, her town, her father could survive. Nothing else mattered, but she hadn't forgotten who she was speaking to.

"My hand in marriage in return for your protection?" she asked, wary, holding Rumplestiltskin's gaze and looking for any sign of deception. She wished she'd paid more attention to her nurse's stories. She wished she'd sought out more books about sorcery. Was the Dark One a deceiver? Did he cheat or deal fairly? And what was that expression on his face? Curiosity? Fascination? "In return for everything we asked?" She pointed to the discarded scroll.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrowed. He studied hers in return, searching for she knew not what.

"Yes." He spoke quietly this time, the single word meant only for her. She made it another anchor in the storm of confusion. And she believed him.

"Then I will marry you," she said, forcing her shaky voice to carry so that everyone in the room could hear. That was important—the promise, the witnesses. She'd agreed to be betrothed to Gaston, cornered into private acquiescence, but her word—her own free and public acceptance of an offer of marriage—was binding. "I will marry Rumplestiltskin in return for everything we asked." 

Rumplestiltskin jiggled with glee. Papa cried out in dismay and Gaston... Gaston _forbade_ her! Each man appalled Belle at that moment: her father for placing his love for her above their duty to their people, Gaston for commanding her as if he owned her, and Rumplestiltskin for laughing like a child snatching up a stolen toy.

"No-one decides my fate but me," she told them, looking from man to man in warning. She'd never been so sure of anything, and the rush of indignation gave her strength. Her hand in marriage was _hers_ to give, not theirs to barter.

"It's forever, dearie." Rumplestiltskin came closer, crushing her father's letter under his boot. He seemed not to notice, so intently did he watch her. For the first time since he appeared in her room, Rumplestiltskin seemed not to know what she'd say next. "This, of all contracts, cannot be broken." 

Did he want her to consider, or to reconsider? Or did he doubt her understanding? Or her word?

"My family, my friends. They will all live?" 

"You have my word." 

Yes, she believed him. She didn't understand these questions, or what she'd done to catch his interest, but he spoke the truth. She knew it.

"Then you have mine. I will be your wife." Forever went without saying, didn't it?

"Deal!" Rumplestiltskin clapped his hands, gleeful again. The texture of his magic changed, no longer smothering and oppressive. It glinted and cut the air instead, manifesting his self-satisfaction. Belle could breathe again—felt as if she hadn't drawn a proper breath since Rumplestiltskin first spoke to her. Everything became too vivid—like a dream, like a memory she'd committed to paper so that it could never be lost. This was the moment when she decided her fate.

"No, Belle, you cannot do this," Papa groaned, but without conviction. He knew very well that she could. She would. She already had. Belle went to him, too numb to share his grief. He couldn't stop her. He wouldn't try, not even if the shame and the loss killed him by lingering inches. He'd taught her about duty and, deep down, he knew this was the only way. But he could plead with her, knowing that it was hopeless; not a leader but a private man pleading for his child. "Belle, please. You cannot give yourself to this..." his reluctant gaze found Rumplestiltskin over Belle's shoulder and hardened into loathing. "This _beast_." He looked sick.

The Dark One gasped, mocking the insult with a hand to his chest in theatrical imitation of a man taking a mortal blow.

"Papa. This isn't so high a price." One woman for a whole people. Anything or anyone else and they would send Rumplestiltskin packing—stand their ground and die here tonight. She caught sight of Gaston, then. He looked bewildered. Rejection might hurt his pride, she expected anger, but Belle was amazed to see that she'd hurt his feelings. "Gaston." She squeezed Papa's hand and spoke kindly to both of them. "It's been decided." 

"You know, she's right. The deal is struck." Rumplestiltskin put his hand at her waist; once again, she started because she hadn't heard him get so close. The touch was gentle, even as his words dripped spite. "Oh, congratulations on your little war!" he added brightly, as if belatedly remembering his manners. "I do hope we're going to have a big party!" 


	3. Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A betrothal and a wedding.

Suddenly her wedding day was tomorrow, and everyone was going to live. It hardly seemed real.

Most of the townsfolk came into the castle again after dark, not trusting that their war was over.

Every corridor and room had its share of people, and by now, Belle's news had blown through like wildfire. Whispers and stares followed her everywhere, but no-one would look her in the eye. Lotte and some of the other servants kept crying, begging her to change her mind.

Knowing that she'd saved all their lives, clinging to that, Belle shut it all out: her father's anguish and anger, Lotte's tears and pleas, Gaston's boiling indignation. All of it. She had a wedding to prepare for—a promise to keep. Rumplestiltskin must be keeping his because they were all still alive. There'd been no battle.

Belle stayed in the council chamber as long as she could bear, her favourite book clutched to her chest like an old friend. Objections to the marriage were discussed. Ways around, ways out—other things that their town might offer the Dark One. Belle shrugged to herself and stayed silent while the men talked about her and around her, treating her sacrifice as a woman's folly.

She thought she ought to be angry with them, but none of it mattered. She'd promised herself to Rumplestiltskin before witnesses. Only he could release her from that promise now. If he accepted her hand tomorrow, it was forever. She grew impatient when the council's debate began to go over old ground, searching for words that could somehow alter the shape of the truth. As if she would break her word, whatever they concluded, while Rumplestiltskin was out on their city walls, a lone silhouette in the moonlight, keeping his.

The ogres didn't come. Wasn't that worth the price? _Any_ price?

No-one stopped her leaving the meeting, and it wasn't as if they'd let her speak if she stayed. She left them debating how to save Belle from herself—searching for precedent without asking the only person in the castle who knew the library inside out now that her mother was gone: Belle herself. Even if they found a loophole in the law, no-one cheated the Dark One out of a deal.

Still in her golden dress, bare-shouldered, Belle felt the stares like a chill on her skin. No-one tried to stop her going outside. Even the gate guard merely hesitated at the sight of her before standing to attention until she passed.

The market square should be full of people celebrating being alive. But the streets were all empty, everyone keeping to the castle or locking themselves in their own homes. The square held only the makeshift canopies of the sick rooms, empty and awaiting the next wave of wounded.

Well, they'd never come. The sight of the empty pallets settled Belle's courage into a kind of conviction.

Turning in a slow circle, Belle sought out Rumplestiltskin's shape atop the walls. Word came earlier that he'd ordered the guards down, ordered everyone to stand clear of the walls, then walked three times widdershins around the battlements. Now he was on the watchtower over the city's main gate, head and shoulders visible against the moonlight. Perfectly still.

Someone back inside the castle courtyard called her name. Lotte, fretting after her and come to lead her back inside. Belle picked up her skirts and ran for the shelter of darkness in the shadow of the corn exchange. From there she could peek out at the main gate—watch her betrothed while hiding from Lotte.

Belle couldn't guess what Rumplestiltskin was doing. He didn't move, his hand resting on the masonry as he stared out into the darkness. But he looked purposeful, somehow—intent on whatever he was doing to rid them of the ogres. She hadn't expected it to be so silent. Without acknowledging the fear, she'd expected screams and acrid smoke, the sounds and stench of terrible death. A battle, in fact. She might have pitied the ogres for what she'd unleashed on them, then. Instead, there was this thick silence—a long and heavy silence that spread out from their battered walls and across the farms and forest. It obliterated the sounds she'd learned not to hear; the busy, distant encampments of men and ogres and the ever-nearing thunder of battle. The deep red glow in the sky that fed her nightmares all these weeks had gone away.

She breathed a sigh of relief, only to suck in a breath and tense herself all over again when Lotte called her name, nearer this time. She'd come out into the square, Belle's shawl clutched forlornly to her chest.

"Lady Belle! Your papa wants you safe inside!"

Belle tried to pull herself nearer to the masonry. She didn't want to see Lotte, her father. Anyone. And safe from what, anyway? There were no ogres. The man everyone was so afraid of was hardly going to harm her _before_ the wedding, was he?

"She can't see you, dearie."Rumplestiltskin's voice drifted down to her, warped by the sucking silence that he'd wrought. "Come on up and see the fruits of your bargain."

It was neither a suggestion nor a command. Rumplestiltskin spoke with the calm certainty that Belle would choose to do as he said.

Belle made a dash to the gatehouse, expecting Lotte to spot her and call out, but when she glanced over her shoulder, her maid was turning to leave.

Magic, then. Lotte would have seen her otherwise. Dry-mouthed, Belle made her way to the steps of the watchtower and looked up. Half the stairs had come down in the last assault, leaving a narrow space for each footfall. Someone had slung a rope to aid the now-perilous climb. Belle grabbed it and started to climb, her wide skirt pushing against the wall and keeping her off-balance.

At the top where the last step was barely the width of her slippered foot, Rumplestiltskin's outstretched hand awaited her. A moment's hesitation, a reluctance that shamed her by being thoughtless, then she grasped Rumplestiltskin's hand and let him pull her up to the safety of the parapet.

"We can't have you falling to your death," he said, singsong and soft, releasing her the moment her feet were on solid stone. Belle stared at her own hand. Why had she expected his touch to be cold and clammy? His skin was warm, slightly rough. "Come. See what you've bought with your promise."

Rumplestiltskin pointed to the horizon.

Belle was afraid to look. There could be anything out there in that unnatural silence, and in her fear, she imagined the worst. Corpses. Devastation. That was when she understood the dark looks back in the castle; why Papa could barely speak to her. This terror of what came next. This man, this dark creature of legend, was capable of doing anything and everything. He had magic—true, terrible, powerful magic—and a reputation for cruelty. What had she unleashed on the ogres? She'd forgotten an important piece of the story; if you made a wish, a magical bargain, you couldn't afford to be vague. It never ended well. And she hadn't asked him to be merciful in dealing with the ogres.

"Why are your eyes shut?" Peevish, Rumplestiltskin scuffed his foot against the gritty stone.

Belle took a deep breath and opened her eyes, bracing herself not to scream whatever she saw. Instead, she gasped and ran right to the edge when she saw what Rumplestiltskin had done.

Where for months there had been the churned mud and ruin of troop encampments, now there were ploughed fields. Where the pine trees of the forest had been bent, broken, or decimated for timber, now they stood tall and lush against the skyline. It was an empty landscape, like a painting—no crops, no livestock, no people, or buildings, but at peace. Healed. Waiting.

A hand at her throat, open-mouthed, Belle stared.

"Pleased?" Rumplestiltskin was close all of a sudden, his face beside her own, his question delivered with a gust of warm breath against her ear. Belle's startled intake of breath made him giggle.

"The soldiers?" she managed, her voice only a little bit shrill.

"Safe."

"The ogres?"

"Removed." Rumplestiltskin rolled and relished the first letter of the word, playful and pleased with himself.

Belle nodded. She should thank him—stoke that self-satisfaction with praise and gratitude... but 'removed'? That could mean anything.

"What will stop them coming back?"

"Long experience with me," he snarled, surging towards her, up close behind her. But he didn't touch her—not so much as to disturb her skirts. He was so _fast_. Even as she tensed with fright at having angered him, Rumplestiltskin became quiet again. His lips almost touched her ear as he confided, softly, "I've found that even ogres are capable of learning. Eventually. After I killed enough of them." Soft as the words were, they crawled with menace. Belle forced herself by sheer effort of will not to flinch, not to hug herself and curl inward. No matter how frightened she was, she refused to look it. Rumplestiltskin kept startling her, used words like knives, but he'd done her no harm. He'd done everything he promised and more.

"Thank you," she said when she'd calmed herself enough to be sure that her thanks were sincere. She rested her hands on the stone, breathing in the crisp night air. "For keeping our bargain. For mending the land. It's so much more than we asked for."

Suddenly he was gone from her side—gone to the far corner of the lookout with his back towards her and his shoulders hunched as if he'd suddenly felt the cold.

"Consider it my wedding gift."

Belle did hug herself, then, and think longingly of that shawl.

"Thank you." She didn't know what else to say to him. His price was steep—her future, her freedom, her flesh—yet those things were nothing compared to the sacrifice of the fallen, or the innocent lives saved. If Rumplestiltskin meant to be fair in his dealings with her, generous even, then she'd do the same. And his hand... His hand was warm to the touch. So far, he'd defied her worst fears. Nervously, she tried to offer him a smile, a beginning, but he wasn't looking at her.

She stayed, not because she needed his leave to go but because his withdrawn silence suited her better than the uproar inside the castle. Rumplestiltskin stared out at the fields while the moon rose higher, his forefingers tapping out a rapid rhythm on the stone beside him.

Was that part of the magic? Belle wasn't sure until, long minutes later, when Rumplestiltskin stopped, the sound came back. Its return eased the hitherto unrecognised pressure between her ears—like a bubble bursting, momentarily painful, then returning her sense of a world beyond these walls. The gusting wind, the cries of the night creatures. The distant thunder of the sea.

So softly that she would have missed it had she not been watching him, Rumplestiltskin exhaled—ceased some considerable, invisible effort. He placed his hand flat on the parapet and lost some of the rigid stillness. He'd finished his work.

"You should go inside," he said without looking at her. "There's a wedding to prepare for." The singsong voice crept back, along with the hint of a sneer, but it sounded weary somehow. As if his heart wasn't in it. Did he have a heart? "And then we've a long journey ahead."

~~~

Hysterical with grief for her mistress, Lotte wept a huge dark stain on Belle's shoulder before someone found a healer who could be spared. It took poppy drops in warm milk to calm the girl, sending her straight to sleep. She would miss the wedding, leaving Belle to fend for herself with her dress and hair, but there wasn't time to wait for Lotte to pull herself together.

Belle wanted to be brave, but every one of Lotte's sobs brought her closer to hysteria of her own. She couldn't face the people she saw every day—the reminder that she was to leave her home, her friends. Her father. She couldn't bear the way they looked at her, so she sent a message to Elena, Dimitri's wife, begging her to come and help. She'd turned out enough daughters for their wedding day, and she'd played a mother's part to Belle more than once before.

"He didn't leave the walls all night," Elena told her, neatly if inexpertly pinning up Belle's hair. The high, braided style supported a tiara—not the sapphire and pearl diadem belonging to Gaston's mother, but the silver-plated copper band that Belle's own mother wore on her wedding day. "We all saw him up there. Never slept a wink, never spoke a word. Your papa sent out food and wine, but he didn't touch it. But the soldiers, they're all coming home. They can't say what happened. What was he doing out there?"

"Everything we asked," Belle murmured. She'd dreamed of last night's meeting when she finally managed to sleep at all. Of Rumplestiltskin's sober silence and the warmth of his hand in hers. "And more."

Had the soldiers noticed him, thanked him, as they straggled home in search of orders?

"We need no more from that one, my lady," Elena said, dropping her forced cheer and meeting Belle's eyes in the mirror on her dressing table. "Our debt is to you. You've saved us. We won't forget it."

Elena's kind heart matched her husband's. She wasn't about to start selfishly blubbing as she laced Belle into her wedding dress, but she looked troubled and sad.

The borrowed, full-length mirror allowed Belle to watch the woman work. Elena made lace and wove silk ribbons—her hands were nimble with the long white cord, pulling the bodice in tight. It was a fashionable shape, a courtier's gown, leaving her shoulders bare and showing more chest than Belle felt comfortable about. Tight lacing did flatter her, lifting her small breasts to make them look fuller and nipping in her waist above the cascade of silk skirts. The dressmakers had done themselves proud. Uncomfortable as the dress was, they'd made her look for all the world a proper bride. A bride was what Rumplestiltskin wanted, and a bride was what he would get.

Rumplestiltskin's bride. The Dark One's bride.

Belle stared at herself, the image blurring before her as she repeated the words in her head, trying to believe them—force them to make any sense. That girl in the costly silk dress with her hair up like that... that wasn't Belle! Surely, she'd wake up at any second and find that this was all another uneasy dream—that the ogres were battering down the castle after all?

"I tied the lover's knot, Princess," Elena said, stirring her gently from her daze by plucking at the back of the dress. Belle tried to look over her shoulder and ended up turning in an awkward circle, making them both laugh. How she needed to laugh—a moment's respite from the joyless mood of the occasion! She squeezed Elena's hand, grateful to her for more than today.

"I'm no princess, Elena," she said gently. The older woman hadn't called her that in years. The nickname was the town's little joke, now, but everyone had used it when she was a girl. She'd been at Elena's house the day she grew up, playing with the other children. She vividly remembered going into the family's cosy kitchen and drawing Elena down to whisper in her ear: she thought her blood had come, what should she do? There'd been no fuss or blushes, only Elena's kindness when she most missed having a mother of her own. "I don't even feel like a woman," she admitted, small-voiced.

"Not a lover, either," Elena answered, matter-of-factly. She left the unspoken question in the air, bait for Belle to take or leave, and contrived to have several copper hairpins clamped between her lips for the next little while. She frowned to herself while she tidied the looser tresses around the nape of Belle's neck, softening her face with a few artful ringlets.

"Why the lover's knot, then?" Belle didn't mind if she was being teased. She was only grateful to have a conversation that kept her mind from turning inward to her fears. A future duchess might have to stand on ceremony, but a knight's daughter could gossip with a blacksmith's wife. "Go on!"

Elena gave in and took the pins out of her mouth.

"Well, it's traditional, that's why," she said, smoothing the skirts over Belle's padded hips, and giving something behind her a firm tug downwards, settling the dress into a better shape. "And it slows a bridegroom down, if you get my meaning. Gives you a bit more time to get to know him first."

"First?" Belle's eyes widened, but she caught herself—thought about it properly rather than letting herself be incredulous. She couldn't be silly about this.

"Oh. Yes." Her stomach gave a nervous lurch. As in her dream, she felt Rumplestiltskin's hand in hers again—dry, strong, and warm as he helped her up the treacherous climb. She pictured that hand pulling at a knot of corded white satin, tied with mischief and tradition in mind, and of what would surely be on Rumplestiltskin's mind when that happened. When it happened _tonight_.

Belle's knees gave way. Elena caught her bare shoulders and landed her smartly on the dressing stool in a cloud of white skirts.

"There now," she soothed, stroking Belle's cheek and drawing back the ringlets, letting them fall back and dance against her skin. "Whatever they say about him he walks like a man, so I say he's a man in the ways that matter. Men aren't difficult, Princess. Don't you fret now. I'll tell you what you need to know—if you want to know it. Bless your dear mother, but she probably gave you a book instead."

Belle flushed and bit her lip. It was true—her mother always said you could learn anything in a library. She knew what to expect from her wedding night, what a man and woman _did_ , but... _Was_ Rumplestiltskin even a man? Suppose Elena was wrong about that? He had scaly skin! It seemed to change colour, to sparkle with the shifting light. And his eyes... And she was going to have to let him touch her as no-one else ever had or ever would—not just a touch on the hand!

She shut her eyes, tight.

"How often do men want to... you know?"

"All the time, as near as I can tell," Elena said, breezily. Her little laugh made Belle open her eyes in surprise. Elena winked at her in the looking glass. "How often you let him and how often he can manage it, that's another story. Like I said, men aren't difficult. Talk to him while he's all tangled up in knots. You'll see." She plucked again at the lover's knot. "And if he treats you wrong, you tell that knight of yours, Sir Gaston. He's fit to kill him as it is."

Belle put her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed at herself. She'd _forgotten_ about Gaston in the hurry of the preparations! Their broken engagement seemed so unimportant; all the doubts she'd ever had about Gaston looked so small next to the prospect of marrying the Dark One!

"Where is he?"

"He rode in just as I got here. Been out with your father and the rest, inspecting the land. The soil's good, ready to plant. There's wood all cut for building, too, and sacks of seed and feed. Everything set to rights."

Belle nodded. Her wedding gift, the Dark One said. Kindness was a debt that she could never grudge to repay. She just had to hope that he'd go on being kind to her.

She bit her lip, then caught sight of herself in the mirror and remembered not to spoil the paint and powder on her face.

"Is... I mean, was Dimitri kind to you, Elena? The first time?" She only blushed a little bit.

"Always." Elena squeezed her shoulders. "But I wanted him from the minute I set eyes on him. Things go easy when the wanting goes both ways. You'll have to learn, and if he's a fool, you'll have to teach him as well."

Belle nodded slowly. She was grateful for the advice even if she wasn't sure she'd be wise to follow it. Rumplestiltskin might or might not be a man, but she was confident that he was no fool.

"I'm ready," she said, steadily enough, when Elena finished her hair. She stood up, making sure her legs were under her, and let Elena smooth out the folds of her skirt again. "As ready as I'm going to be." She picked up her mother's necklace and managed to steady her hands long enough to fasten it at her neck. "Everything I'm taking with me is in the chest." At least, she hoped she'd be allowed to take it with her. Rumplestiltskin hadn't offered them any hint of what her future looked like—how she should prepare or what she ought to pack. It gave her a pang to think that her books might be left behind. She'd only packed a few, just the ones she couldn't bear to part with.

"There's a carriage standing outside," Elena said, uneasily. "It must be his. I'll get some lads to carry this down."

Something normal, something expected. That was good. Belle nodded, trying to look braver than she felt.

"Time to be a bride, then. Will you tell Papa that I'm ready?"

Elena took her by the hands, kissed her firmly on both cheeks, and bustled away on her errand before Belle had to see her cry.

Belle waited a few moments then followed slowly after the woman, learning how to move in the dress. Shivering as much with cold as from nerves on her way down the winding staircase, Belle concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. On looking brave and bridal, even if she felt anything but. Perhaps if she looked the part, convinced herself, true bravery would follow?

Papa met her at the foot of the stairs, his face ashen and his smile a ghost. She took his hand—Papa's big, wonderful hand—and squeezed it tightly.

"The mended land was his wedding gift to me," she whispered, trying to forget the onlookers. Half the town seemed to be standing around in the corridor, in the side-rooms, spilling out of the doors. "He didn't have to do that. It's a good sign, isn't it?"

"He didn't have to do any of this," was her father's curt reply. His anger cut her as deeply as his pain. "It's to be the old ceremony. I give him your hand, and he accepts you. No priest could be found." Papa was angry about that. With Belle, with everything. He'd rather have died than let it come to this, and now he had to live—to give his daughter to the Dark One. His hand shook as much as hers as he led her towards the council room, the doors opened for them by two grim-faced guards.

This room wasn't packed with people. The councilmen stood around in an awkward semi-circle near the broken window. Rumplestiltskin leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, his smile lazy and wicked. He'd added a long cloak of brocade and fur to his attire of leather and silk.

When Belle and her father arrived at the window, Rumplestiltskin peeled himself away from the wall with the fluid grace of a stretching cat.

"I was starting to think you'd run away," he said merrily.

"I gave you my word." Belle's voice seemed small and lost in the empty room, with the dress crushing the air out of her. "And here I am."

"Dark One. My lord." Arnos snatched off his velvet cap and approached Rumplestiltskin, head bowed. "We beg you for mercy."

"Mercy?" Rumplestiltskin pulled a pitying face at him, flinging his arms wide. "Come now! This is a wedding, not an execution!"

"For my daughter," Papa grated, clutching Belle so tightly to his side that she struggled to keep her feet. "You've no more need of Belle than of the gold. I beg you, take the gold instead. All we have, it's yours, and my life as well if it'll satisfy you."

"No!" Belle wasn't the only person to cry out.

Slowly, Rumplestiltskin approached and faced Papa, who pushed her away to arm's length and stood his ground. She'd never seen such hatred in his face—in anyone's face. But Rumplestiltskin's anger was worse even than that. It blazed in his inhuman eyes. It flowed out around Belle and her father like invisible limbs, like a shadow she could feel coming alive. Magic. Dark, deadly magic, and the sense that it was barely under Rumplestiltskin's control.

"My 'needs' are none of your concern," the Dark One said, low and warning, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And my contract is with your daughter, not with you." Dismissing her father with a curt gesture, Rumplestiltskin turned to her, heel grinding in the plaster dust and broken glass that littered the floor. "What about you? Do you plead for mercy?" His cheek twitched. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.

Belle swallowed her fear—enough to speak.

"No. But please don't be angry with these people for wanting to protect me. They know that I'm going to keep my promise if they can't find another way."

Appeased, maybe a little surprised, Rumplestiltskin nodded.

"Very well then. Sir Maurice, your daughter's hand if you please. I see that you dispensed with droning priests and silly incense. Very wise. I don't like to make too much of a fuss." While he spoke, he tamed his temper, his tone lightening—becoming playful again. He looked around the bare room in mock consternation. "I take it there isn't going to be a party?"

From the corner of her eye, Belle saw her father bunch his fist and battle with himself. She'd only seen him strike another man twice, but...

"Papa." Quickly, she offered him her hand, her voice as sharp as her terror would allow. "Please."

Papa swallowed, sickened, but nodded. He took Belle's hand and faced her, looking her over as if trying to paint a final picture of her in his mind. He lifted their hands and kissed her knuckles, his eyes saying 'goodbye'.

The old ceremony wasn't much of one at all. It took but a moment: it was witnessed, and that made it lawful. Papa guided her hand towards Rumplestiltskin's waiting one. The Dark One's skin glittered in the filtered sunbeams. He watched Belle's face with greedy expectation, eager agitation—still almost daring her to call his bluff.

"My daughter's hand in marriage," said Papa, his voice dead.

"I take her as my wife," Rumplestiltskin answered brightly, clasping Belle's small hand between both his palms. The barest pressure held her there. "What is it they say? Until death?" Rumplestiltskin looked around at his audience, baring his crooked teeth in a grin. "That could be a bit tricky on my end, but I'll make the most of her for as long as she lasts."

Belle heard Papa's moan of grief, but it seemed distant. Everything felt light, floating, dreamlike—everything except Rumplestiltskin's hands against her skin. Down a narrowing tunnel of vision, she saw Arnos take Papa by the arm to steady him.

_Papa..._

Trembling from head to foot, concentrating on each step she took, Belle avoided every gaze and let Rumplestiltskin guide her with his hand at the small of her back. They walked past the silent rows of townspeople, their backs pressed to the walls of the passageway—past Gaston, whose hand convulsed on the hilt of his sword.

The only sound came from Rumplestiltskin's heeled boots on the flagstones, from the shuffling footsteps of the men who followed them silently out of the council room, and from the whisper of Belle's wedding dress where it dragged the ground behind her. That sounded so loud in the screaming silence—swish, swish, swish. The only real thing in a dream world. That and Rumplestiltskin's hand on her back, solid and still.

A town stood silent.

A bride was helped into her carriage.

Her husband joined her there.

They had a long journey ahead.


	4. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A carriage journey with a stranger.

Rumplestiltskin's carriage had no horses and no driver. Belle would have been amazed had she not already been numb, spending every ounce of her willpower to go where Rumplestiltskin led, sit where he directed, and not to look back as he took her away from the only home she'd ever known.

After an hour on the road, it became apparent that Rumplestiltskin's intentions weren't immediately murderous. In fact, he did nothing. Perched at the far end of the seat, he politely avoided crowding her or crushing her dress. They both stared ahead of them in uneasy silence, and Belle sensed that the unease was not hers alone.

They travelled all day without stopping. Belle became ravenous once her terror drained away into fatigue, and the motion of the carriage kept trying to lull her to sleep. She hadn't eaten or slept properly in days but felt the need to stay alert in Rumplestiltskin's presence—to keep herself ready for anything. Just because he sat quietly beside her now didn't mean he wouldn't unleash his magic at any moment. Having glimpsed his temper before the wedding, Belle was anxious to stay on good terms with him—to avoid misunderstandings.

They had a lifetime ahead of them after all. Belle's lifetime. As he'd so cruelly reminded her father, she was mortal and the Dark One... was not. She'd never be his widow, whatever else happened. But she would have to live with him. If she lived.

Rumplestiltskin sat perfectly still at first, his back straight, but after a while, his hands began to fidget in his lap. He couldn't seem to help himself. Belle started to sneak sideways glances at his hands, fascinated by the compulsive movement and still too frightened to look at his face. He'd rub his fingertips together; flex and wiggle his fingers; crack his knuckles; drum a soundless rhythm upon his leather-clad knees with his fingertips and, every so often, clasp both hands tightly together to still them. It was never long before the movement began again.

Belle jerked herself awake before she ever knew she'd been drifting off to sleep. She'd cricked her neck, resting her head against the quilted panelling beside the door, and self-consciously lifted a hand to rub at the stab of pain. A red blanket of warm, woven wool fell away from her arm. Rumplestiltskin must have covered her while she slept. She tried out apologetic words in her head, tried thinking of how to thank him for the kindness, but the silence felt much safer.

It was luxurious as carriages went. Although not unusually large, expensive fabrics and polished walnut fittings spoke of high craftsmanship. The upholstery was of cream and gold brocade, with scattered loose cushions made from red velvet and cloth-of-gold. Rumplestiltskin had thrown them all onto the opposite seat as he showed her in. When he saw her gazing at the nearest cushion, he leaned across and took it from the seat, offering it to her with his eyes averted.

At last, Belle found her voice.

"Thank you." She took the cushion. She hadn't been coveting it, only admiring, and there was hardly any room on her seat to use it, but it was nice to get a closer look at such a beautiful piece. It had a trim of gold braid, each corner finished with a fat tassel made of the same thread. Fingering it, Belle recognised it as real gold thread—not precious metal twisted around another strand, but pure gold. It had the weight, the drape, even the warmth of silk, but it was made of gold. How did he do that? Belatedly, she realised that he hadn't given it to her to look at.

Belle tucked the cushion behind her back, moving awkwardly in the tight dress, and tried a smile in Rumplestiltskin's direction. He looked away hastily as she turned her head towards him. She noticed that it was dusk. He'd lit little lanterns while she slept, giving them enough light that she hadn't immediately realised it was dark outside. The lanterns swung from above, their combination of gold filigree and flame filling the corners of the cramped space with broken shadows that danced to the motion of the wheels.

It made her feel a bit sick to watch them.

Belle wasn't used to carriage travel. She was a horsewoman, something her father took great pride in. She knew just enough to know that this was an uncommonly smooth ride over the dirt roads of the Enchanted Forest. And so quiet! No horses, so no hoofbeats—that made sense. But even the wheels sounded muffled, or far away. The effect reminded Belle of the bubble of silence Rumplestiltskin wrought around the town last night; a slight pressure in her head that threatened to become a headache.

Had it only been last night? Belle blinked a few times, trying to wake up properly and convince herself that this wasn't some sort of dream. A day ago she'd been sure of what was real. Now, suddenly, she knew what magic felt like, and was a married woman sitting beside a wizard in an enchanted carriage, with the night coming on fast. Her _wedding_ night. It all felt real, but part of her kept telling her that it couldn't be.

She rearranged the blanket into a shawl and gathered it under her chin, the cloth clenched in her fist. These little comforts had to mean something, didn't they? The blanket, the cushion. What else could they be but well-intentioned gestures meant to put Belle at her ease? The idea solidified her courage and gave her whirl of thought the direction of hope. The warmth of the blanket unknotted her stiff shoulders, and she let herself rest against the seat back, the cushion behind her.

She thought she saw Rumplestiltskin give a fractional nod of approval before he went back to staring at the opposite seat. He withdrew so completely into his silence and his stillness that Belle felt almost alone. She rested, keeping just the right side of sleep.

Courage couldn't help once she felt the call of nature. It was full night, now, and Rumplestiltskin hadn't told her when, where, or even if they would break this journey. She'd have to say something.

Taking a deep breath, licking her lips to work some moisture around her mouth, Belle turned awkwardly on the seat and faced her new husband for the first time.

Rumplestiltskin was too preoccupied to notice. He had his right elbow propped in the frame of the small window to his right, his temple resting on his clenched fist. The other hand rested on his knee, forefinger tapping out his distraction.

"Sir?"

Startled, Rumplestiltskin straightened up and arranged his features into a mask of polite enquiry.

"Yes?"

"Will we stop somewhere soon?" Belle hesitated, not wanting to be too blunt, but anxious that he didn't mistake the urgency of her meaning. "I need to stretch my legs." She tried to show him, with an apologetic grimace, that she'd have to insist if he said no.

"Very soon. Yes. Very soon." Even simple statements were a game to Rumplestiltskin. He played with words, twisting them around his tongue with all the aplomb and relish of a travelling player. With the meagre lamplight sliding back and forth across his angular face, you'd hardly even notice that he wasn't... that he was...

Belle hurriedly lowered her gaze to watch his hands again.

Rumplestiltskin produced a length of thick golden thread from somewhere—she didn't see how—and wrapped it around his fingers, weaving it deftly into a cradle. The thread caught the light and warmed its tone. Like the braid and tassels on his cushions, the thread in Rumplestiltskin's hands was made of real gold.

"They say that you can turn plain straw into gold, " she ventured. Now that they'd broken the silence with no harm done, Belle was afraid to let it return. It only gave her fears space to grow. Besides, it wasn't merely small-talk. Pure gold that behaved like silk thread in this sorcerer's hands—that was marvellous. It was beautiful! She really did want to know how it was made. Who wouldn't? "Is that true?"

"They say a lot of things about me," Rumplestiltskin replied lightly. "But yes. That one's true. Straw into gold." He drew the gold between his thumb and forefinger, smoothing it out, then abruptly crumpled it into his fist, which he blew on before opening his hand one finger at a time—a conjurer's flourish. Four tiny coins glinted in the cup of his palm.

"Oh!" Belle clasped her hands together, forgetting herself long enough to show her delight with an honest smile.

Rumplestiltskin hesitated, then closed his hand and opened it again. Empty.

"An amusement," he said, sheepish. "Nothing more. Straw is better."

Belle didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't try.

Presently, the carriage slowed and stopped, juddering over what could only be cobblestones.

"Our lodgings," said Rumplestiltskin, buoyantly. He stepped delicately over Belle's mass of skirts to open the door on her side, jumping down to land with barely a sound. He offered Belle his hand, inclining his upper body in the deferential attitude of a footman. She grasped his hand gratefully and jumped down, letting him steady her while she found her land legs. She hoped he didn't notice that she was shaking, or that her hand grew clammy and weak in his grip.

A fine drizzle met Belle's bare face, enough to blind her with droplets and make the light of torches dazzling. As she raised a hand to wipe her eyes, the blanket slipped from her shoulder. Rumplestiltskin caught the trailing edge, one of those whiplash-fast movements of his, and drew it gently back into place.

Belle hadn't known where they were heading. Neither had she let herself speculate, not wanting to add imagined fears to her very real ones. But she'd expected... something less ordinary? A castle, or somewhere dismal and terrible, some hellish cavern full of sorcery. This looked like a roadside hostelry—a sprawl of buildings around this central courtyard, most in darkness at this late hour, but the substantial, half-timbered house ahead blazed a warm welcome into the inhospitable night.

She began to shiver, rainwater soaking through her satin slippers, but thought she might shake almost as hard if this was a warm summer's night.

"Come." Rumplestiltskin gave her his arm, gallant again, and Belle took it willingly enough, her weak fingers slipping on the stiff leather of his coat.

Before they were halfway across the slushy yard, the inn's double doors flew open, throwing a corridor of yellow light all the way to their feet as though rolling out a carpet to welcome honoured guests. Belle glimpsed crowded tables, a roaring fire.

A bald man waited in the doorway, wiping his hands self-consciously down the front of his leather apron. He bobbed urgent half-bows to Rumplestiltskin before they were within earshot and did his best to show no curiosity whatsoever about Belle.

"My lord." The man bowed lower, ushering them inside. "A foul night. Welcome, welcome. And to, uh, your lady." There was the hint of a question there, hanging on the end of his sentence, but the innkeeper didn't quite dare ask it. Neither did he want to risk insulting Belle by ignoring her, so he bowed once more in her direction, more deeply than before.

Ignoring him, eyes scanning the room like a hawk watchful for prey, Rumplestiltskin led Belle to the fireplace. Those guests who'd been warming themselves there hastily made way, backing against the furniture or sidling out of Rumplestiltskin's line of sight.

Few people dared to stare openly, but enough glances came Belle's way that she wondered how she must look; dismayed, damp and dishevelled in bridal white on the arm of the Dark One; the most feared, the most powerful man in all the realms.

Their host trailed after them as conversations died all around them, all but quivering in his anxiety to please Rumplestiltskin.

"Show the lady to my chamber," Rumplestiltskin commanded, his voice a disinterested drawl, his watchful eyes keeping the room hushed. He dropped four gold coins into the innkeeper's hand, catching the man by surprise so that he had to make an ungainly grab for the money. "See to it that she has a hot meal, your best fare, and that she isn't disturbed by..." Rumplestiltskin gave the crowd of patrons a final hard look, causing heads to turn quickly away. "Revelry." It wasn't quite a sneer. It was definitely a warning.

The autumn scent of mulled cider tickled her nose, the assault on her senses leaving her giddy, her stomach griping to remind her that she'd had nothing to eat or drink today. She swayed on her feet, the heat from the fire making her drowsy. Only then, when Rumplestiltskin curled his arm tighter to steady her, did Belle notice that she was still clutching his elbow as though her life depended on it.

His chamber. A meal. Not to be disturbed. She caught up with his words in a rush, their meanings reaching her conscious mind in sluggish drips. He was waiting—everyone here was waiting. She was supposed to say something, do something, not just stand here.

"Th-thank you," she managed, slipping her arm free of his and taking a shuffling step away from the hearth. She worried that her knees would give way—hoped not to make a spectacle of herself in front of all these strangers. Giving the fretful innkeeper a pleading look, not knowing which way she should go, Belle followed his discreetly pointing finger to an inner door beyond the bar. A plump and greying woman in a white apron waited there, beckoning encouragement when Belle noticed her.

Bracing herself, Belle went to her. Her knees felt like water, and she was too hot and too cold both at the same time, but she didn't faint or stumble. The people's silence and stares battered at her resolve. The woman had her hand already on the stout iron ring of the door, a large black key in the other. Gratefully, Belle followed her into the quiet, chilly stone passage beyond the door, which closed behind them with a solid thud.

"Oh, my dear," whispered the woman, hands flying to her mouth for a moment as though trying to stop the words. Too late. Reddening, she led Belle across the flagstones to the foot of an oak staircase. She looked like one of those people, like Papa, born to fair hair and a cheerfully ruddy complexion. Now, the colour seemed to drain from the woman's face until she looked nearly as grey as her hair.

Concentrating on her footing, on not tripping over her dress, on keeping going no matter what, Belle followed where the older woman led—up two flights, with the sold bannister to her left reassuring her that she wouldn't fall. Lamps lit the way, set into alcoves in the wall, and the place felt unfamiliar. Every sight, sound, and scent reminded Belle that she was far from home, and alone with her fate.

They stopped after the second set of stairs. Her guide showed her to a door nearly opposite the staircase, just slightly to the right. It was only a door, the same stout wood as downstairs, but the lock plate was beautiful, intricate with the workings of a complex mechanism—and made of solid gold. The woman fitted the key into it, her hand shaking, then turned to Belle and said once more,

"Oh, my dear!" Her eyes filled with tears, dismay crumpling into pity. That reminded Belle of Lotte and Papa, and the way everyone had looked at her before the ceremony. Grief, horror. Incomprehension. It was all there in this woman's face, this silly woman who didn't know Belle's name, or anything about her, but thought that Belle wanted or needed her useless tears of pity.

Belle's eyes blurred with hot, stinging tears of her own, the day catching up with her in a rush of anger at the woman. She pushed past her into the room, gulping back the sob that tried to rise in her throat, determined to be alone before she broke down. When she turned to close the door, her escort took out the key to slip it guiltily into her apron pocket. No doubt she'd take it to Rumplestiltskin.

"Thank you," Belle managed, steadying her voice with the last of her pride and, nearly too late, realising that she'd not said a friendly word. Then she put her back to the door and bumped it shut with her mass of skirts, clamping both hands over her mouth in case the building sob got away from her.

If she started crying, she feared she might never be able to stop.

She leaned against the wood for a long time, slowly and carefully noting the details of the room to distract herself.

It was small, a bedchamber dominated by an outsized four-poster which, like the rest of the furniture, was sturdy, polished oak. Someone had tried to crowd in everything they could think of to ensure a comfortable stay. The fabrics and upholstery were deep red and warm gold, with hints of leather and rich fur. Intricately woven rugs covered every inch of the floorboards. It wasn't what Belle expected from a travellers rest, however lively and prosperous.

Every flat surface boasted a light—short candles inside faceted lanterns of coloured glass, tall ones in gilt candelabra. A well-tended log fire burned low in the wide hearth to Belle's left, filling the room with a comforting orange glow and the scent of… rosemary? She could smell roses, too.

There was a small wooden bathtub in front of the fire, squashed between the hearthstone and two wing-backed armchairs. The little table between the chairs was piled high with neatly-folded white towels, the corner of embroidered with a black and gold initial, R.

Belle's trunk sat at the foot of the bed, looking like it had always been there.

She stayed where she was, back pressed to the old carved oak until the unshed tears stopped trying to choke her. Then she went to the trunk and pulled up the lid, fighting a fresh wave of blurry tears when she saw her books just where she'd left them—scattered in haste across the top of her clothes. She brought one out, the worn blue cover familiar and comforting, and hugged it to herself.

Blinking back the tears, shrugging away the blanket to let it fall on the bed, Belle took another, slow look around her. Rumplestiltskin evidently liked to surround himself with luxury. He'd ordered a meal for her and arranged the bath, so he wanted her to be comfortable, yes? That was... a good sign? Would he go to so much trouble just to murder Belle in her sleep?

When the bald innkeeper brought up her supper, Belle greeted him calmly enough. The tray wobbled as the man tried another of his anxious bows, then his eyes lighted upon the stack of towels where he expected an empty table to be. He hesitated, looking around him for somewhere else to set down the tray, then met Belle's gaze for the first time, pleading. Terrified. Bemused, she scooped the linens out of his way and dropped them on the chair. His relief was palpable, as was the sour odour of his nervous sweat. From his abject gratitude, Belle concluded that the poor man was forbidden to touch the Dark One's belongings—which included Belle herself, now she thought about it.

"Thank you," she said, doing her best to sound kindly and untroubled. At least her voice had stopped wavering—the feeling that an invisible hand gripped her throat receding along with the threat of tears. "I can manage."

The man left as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Well, then.

An ornate porcelain pot peeked out from beneath the bed hangings, placed so that she would find it easily. That met her most pressing need but planted a new niggle of unease. When did Rumplestiltskin prepare the room for her arrival? Did the inn keep it always ready for him, or had they known to expect the Dark One tonight? What about the candles, the well-settled fire, not to mention the bath? The round tub would take hours to fill with water that was hot enough to make steam—a bucket-chain of servants from the kitchen range to the bedroom, and batch after batch of boiled water. It was still steaming hot.

Magic then. A flick of his hand, a puff of smoke, and Rumplestiltskin made a room ready for a wedding night?

Or had he made his preparations and then gone to find a bride?

Far too tired to think her way to any answers tonight, Belle tried to push the questions from her mind. The room was welcoming, full of thoughtful touches and beautiful things, so she should pull herself together and wait to see what Rumplestiltskin did next. Unless he proved otherwise, she could hope that his intentions were... well, ordinary for a wedding night, if not strictly honourable.

And it would still be worth his price if they weren't. She had to remember that.

Leaving her book on the bed, Belle sat by the fire and lifted the silver cover from her meal. She laughed, shocking herself with the sudden sound. Her wedding feast was plain meat and potatoes, eaten all by herself. But it smelled delicious, and she hadn't eaten all day. She swallowed as much as she could manage, washing it down with strong, sweet mead that sent a rush of blood to her head and left her feeling a lot better. Could you really find courage in a cup? She rarely indulged, but tonight she poured herself another drink and sipped it, wrapping herself gratefully around the warmth of it.

It would have been nice to bathe, to change into her nightdress and curl up in one of the fireside chairs, but a moment or two of wriggling and twisting told Belle that she'd never get out of the dress without help.

Rumplestiltskin would just have to try his luck with the lover's knot.

Determined to show willing, not to mention distracting herself by keeping busy somehow, Belle fetched a small cloth from her trunk. Dipping it into the bathtub so that she could at least wash her face, hands, and feet, she disturbed a layer of floating red and pink rose petals.

Feeling brighter and more awake, she laid out her new nightgown on the bed, smoothing out the fold lines with the warmth of her palm. Would Rumplestiltskin expect her to be waiting for him in bed? That was how it went whenever Belle had allowed her imagination to run ahead to her wedding night; she, bathed and fresh in her nightgown and blushing from the teasing of her maids, sitting up in bed to wait for her husband to leave the festivities and join her.

And what then? Belle's imagination failed her then. And, of course, the husband in prospect had been Gaston. She hugged herself, wishing for all the world that she could climb into bed and fall asleep. But she couldn't very well do that in her wedding dress–she probably couldn't even lie down.

With nothing else to do, she perched herself on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, and opened her book across her lap. She couldn't concentrate on reading, but she didn't need to read this book. These words were Belle's oldest friends. She ran her fingertips along the lines, turned the pages, and followed along with the story in her mind's eye, letting it keep her thoughts from spiralling into terror.

She grew aware, gradually, of a rising noise from below. The everyday sounds of a large inn, she supposed—all the usual chatter and gossip that their arrival had silenced. If she listened hard, she could make out the sound of a ladle clanging against a big pot every minute or so—the hot cider, she thought, remembering the rich smell and the roasting fireplace. Harder still, and Belle heard a coach leaving—voices trailing into the distance as the party returned to it, then hooves clattering, iron wheels over cobbles, and off into the night. Presently, other guests began to climb the stairs, hushing their voices as they came. Whispering, remembering Rumplestiltskin's admonition, then continuing their talk as they reached their own room and shut themselves safely inside. All the sounds ran together into a comfortable, low murmur. Belle was grateful for all of it. Listening—playing a game with herself by identifying individual sounds—kept her from dwelling on what came next.

A brisk, light knock on the door startled Belle out of her trance. She jumped to her feet, catching the book as it slipped from her lap, all her nerves rushing back at once to take her breath away. Flustered, she pushed the book behind her back and dropped it onto the bedclothes where Rumplestiltskin wouldn't see it.

"Come in," she called—or meant to, but she hadn't taken a deep enough breath. Her voice was nothing but a squeak of alarm.

Rumplestiltskin entered anyway, admitting more of the distant chatter that had kept her company. It was already louder than before; they were relieved that Rumplestiltskin had left them.

"I don't think they were enjoying my company," he said, pantomiming hurt surprise. He had the iron key in his hand—let it slip until it dangled playfully from one outstretched finger.

Belle couldn't answer. She could hardly even breathe. All she could think was that she must look a fright. Her dress was crushed, her feet bare, her hair slipping loose from Elena's patient plaiting and pinning. The room had no mirror to help her do anything about that. Even the window glass refused to show her a reflection, being made of swirled green glass an inch thick.

"You don't like the bath?" Rumplestiltskin looked taken aback. He closed the door and turned the key in the lock. The click made Belle's insides lurch with fright. She reached for every scrap of courage she possessed.

"It... The dress," she explained, weakly. She tried to point over her shoulder, then quickly hid her hand back in the folds of her skirt. It was shaking. "I can't reach to, um..."

Her voice gave up.

"Ah." Pocketing the key, Rumplestiltskin sized her up, head to toe. He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then turn around, my lady."

Shuddering all the way up and down her spine, shutting her eyes tightly, Belle did as he asked.


	5. The Lover's Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding night.

Belle held her breath as he moved towards her, only to gasp out loud when he came near enough to press against the back of her skirts. Vivid awareness of him, his nearness, caused her to break out in all-over, prickly perspiration, snatching breaths around the solid knot of terror in her breast.

Rumplestiltskin plucked gingerly at the fastenings between her shoulder blades. Belle felt him slide a finger beneath the lacing and pull gently. He picked at the knot for a few moments then gave a more forceful tug and a breathy noise of exasperation.

"I'm sorry," Belle said quickly. "The knot, it's our custom. A—a wedding custom. Like a sort of game."

"A tangle is what it is," muttered Rumplestiltskin, but he carried on, working himself a little slack in the lacing and then, "Ah, yes." Something came free beneath her shoulders, releasing some of the pressure on her ribs, and Belle gulped a grateful, deep breath. Slowly, knuckles brushing her skin through the silk of her chemise, Rumplestiltskin unlaced her, working patiently until Belle had to hold her bodice in place with both hands to spare her blushes. A final tug, a long silken slither, and he dangled the white cord over her shoulder. "You appear to be free. Do I win the game?"

"Yes. Thank you." Her gratitude was as sincere as her relief. She felt stronger already, elated almost—just being able to breathe properly eased her nerves. She wanted to groan her heartfelt thanks and flop onto the bed—to embrace this moment of simple gladness after such a dismal day. But Rumplestiltskin hadn't moved. He stood there behind her, close, his hands coming to rest lightly on the full swell of her skirts. He leaned in closer until she could hear him breathing.

Belle hardly dared breathe at all. If this was a game, then she was his prize.

What was he going to do to her?

"Tell me," Rumplestiltskin said, leaning nearer, his voice very soft in her ear but every word crisply clear. "Are you a maiden? The truth, now, dearie. These things matter."

"I am," Belle declared.

Rumplestiltskin sighed, letting go of her and falling back so that she no longer felt him there; that ominous presence, that weight of magic at her back. He stalked over to the window, hands becoming tight fists at his sides.

"A pity," he muttered. Irritably, he lifted the short, red curtain aside and watched the rain making patterns on the ancient, swirled glass.

Belle watched him, open-mouthed, thoughts falling into an urgent scramble for understanding. Yes, she was a maiden! As uncertain as any other maiden on her wedding night, no doubt, and as unsure of her husband as anyone who wed a stranger, but what husband sighed to discover that his bride was a virgin?

"I don't understand." She sounded indignant—she _was_ indignant! Papa had to swear on his knees before King George that his daughter remained chaste before her betrothal to Gaston! On his knees! If her maidenhead was supposed to be that precious, something worth keeping for her wedding night, shouldn't Rumplestiltskin be _pleased_ she still had it? "Shouldn't I be a maiden?"

"A pity for you, child," he retorted, shortly. Belle's outrage evaporated the moment she took in his words—how weary he looked. His displeasure wasn't with her; he was concerned for her sake. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the fireplace. "Make yourself comfortable. Bathe if you wish. I shan't peek." A grim smile pulled at his mouth for a moment, then he turned his back firmly to the room and stared fixedly at the black square of window, one hand behind his back while the other held the curtain open.

Belle looked around her, uncertainly. Bathe? With him standing there? Definitely not! What he was lying, what if he peeked? But she'd have to undress if she wanted to go to bed, and she wanted to sleep more than anything. Better to find out sooner rather than later if Rumplestiltskin was going to be a gentleman or a beast.

She turned her back to him before letting the bodice fall away, exposing her skin to cooler air and making her shiver again. Her treacherous imagination felt his gaze on her back, but when she snuck a glance over her shoulder, Rumplestiltskin hadn't moved. She had to force herself to peel away the rest of her clothes, stepping quickly out of the mass of petticoats and grabbing for her nightdress. It fell over her smoothly, covering her from throat to shins, and another furtive glance confirmed that Rumplestiltskin still hadn't moved.

The nightdress felt too crisp and new. Unfamiliar, like everything else here, but still so much better than that crushing dress! Guiltily, she retrieved the dress from the floor and laid it neatly over the top of her trunk, tucking her precious book among the folds of silk.

Belle went back to sitting on the edge of the bed and started to unpin her hair. When the tiara came free, the whole style unravelled. All Belle had to do was search out the copper hairpins and shake out the braids.

She watched Rumplestiltskin as she did so. He was as good as his word; he didn't peek, even when it must be evident to him that she'd finished making herself decent. He was waiting for her permission to turn around.

Gentleman, then. Some of the time, anyway.

"You can look now," she said when she'd looked her fill at him.

Rumplestiltskin didn't turn at once. He appeared to steel himself, those restless hands in motion again. When he did face her, it wasn't to look at her. His attention wandered elsewhere—to her discarded dress, the tiara in her hands, the bathtub, and the half-eaten meal. All the while, his hands tangled themselves in writhing, living knots before him, playing cat's cradle with her satin laces as he had with the length of golden thread before. So sure of himself and so smug when he struck their bargain, that crowing performance of self-satisfaction, Rumplestiltskin was dumbstruck now.

Hairpins in her mouth to keep from losing them while she sought out the last few in her fallen hair, Belle remembered about Elena. Her advice. 'Talk to him while he's tangled up in knots. You'll see.'

Slowly, wary and thoughtful, Belle took the pins out of her mouth and placed them in her lap with the tiara.

"Is this where you live?"

It wasn't much of a question, she had to admit; she didn't think for a moment that the Dark One lived in one room in a public inn. Just something to say—innocuous enough that even a mighty wizard couldn't take offence.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened in surprise, staring straight at her at last.

"No," he said, almost stumbling over the word in his bewilderment. Perhaps she had offended him after all! "It's another day's journey to my estate." A hesitation. Fluttering hands, then stillness. He looked anxious, nodding as if to encourage Belle's approval of the travel arrangements. He took two steps towards her—jerky, uncertain. "Your new home." Again, it sounded like an appeal for her goodwill rather than a statement of fact. Exploratory. Cautious. "You shall live in comfort and be well protected. Your duties will be light, your time your own." Hopeful? Belle couldn't make him out. 

Rumplestiltskin wasn't a man used to asking anyone for anything; he had the power to take whatever he wanted. He certainly had power over her.

"I will try to be a good wife, sir," Belle said, her voice distant and strange in her ears, warped by exhaustion. The promise came out with all the solemnity of a sacred vow. Maybe it was. He was right, these things mattered. Promises. Contracts. Beginnings.

Rumplestiltskin smiled weakly. Then he shook himself, approaching slowly with his hands open at his sides as if to show her that he came unarmed. He knew what effect he made, Belle was quite sure of that. Before, at home, he'd been cocksure and cruel—enjoying himself when he startled her. Now Belle wondered if it was entirely of his own volition, this strange dance Rumplestiltskin made of moving through the world. She was keenly aware of the sound his heeled boots made as he walked—that creak of leather emphasised by his slow steps. The inn's sounds grew distant as Belle gave her awareness entirely to him and knew that Elena was right. The lover's knot was more than a game. It served a purpose, as all traditions should. A little more time. A reason to exchange a few words. A place to start when you found yourself alone with a complete stranger without any idea of what to do or say next.

Oh, Belle knew _what_ came next, what a man and woman did when they were married, but no book had given her so much as a clue about _how_. How did two perfect strangers go about doing _that_? Would he expect her to know? Was Rumplestiltskin awaiting a sign from her, or was she supposed to spot one from him?

He wasn't impatient; didn't seem to be waiting for her to do anything in particular. He just watched, his attention unwavering now that he'd decided to give it to Belle. He didn't blink often enough. Belle could grow used to those unnerving, large golden irises with their startling, pinprick pupils—knew she'd become blind to the oddity if she came to see the man behind it. But he didn't blink enough. That absence of something ordinary screamed wrongness.

Hesitant, Rumplestiltskin reached out his right hand and touched the hair beside her right cheek, fingertip-light. Her tresses hung limp and crushed from the braids, uncombed. Belle wasn't sure she'd even found all the hairpins. Her hair must look a mess, but Rumplestiltskin caressed it like a thing so perfect that he hardly dared touch. Belle's breathing quickened with nerves, then settled when Rumplestiltskin did no more than this. She hoped Elena was right that her new husband was a man, at least in the ways that mattered here and now. Imagination refused to supply her with possible alternatives. She tried not to stare or look expectant as he indulged this sudden fascination with her hair.

He smelled of leather, and faintly of the leaves in autumn and of rich forest soil. Magic clung to him, wrapped all about him, potent and warning. Magic was everywhere in the world, but usually small, scarce, sparkling, and precious. In Rumplestiltskin, magic pooled and swirled, bottomless and dark. To be this near to him was to be caught up in its wake and to have him fill the world.

Slowly, drawing one fingertip along her jaw until he'd crooked it beneath her chin, Rumplestiltskin lifted Belle's head. He bent, bringing them face-to-face.

"Tell me," he crooned, "that I disgust you, and I will leave our contract unfulfilled." His eyes bored into hers, demanding her attention. Her truth. "Do you understand what that means, my lady?"

Belle felt as though his scrutiny might wear away her very skin. She nodded her understanding, his gentle finger still holding her in place. The contract unfulfilled. He'd promise to leave her be—his wife in name only. Would he let her go? Home?

Hope leapt in her heart. For a heartbeat, the possibility elated her. But promises weren't game pieces. She had to speak the truth.

But what was the truth?

Did he disgust her, this Rumplestiltskin who had given much more than he'd promised in return for her hand in marriage? Who strutted and gloated for all the world to see, vicious as a whirlwind, but fidgeted and hesitated once they were alone? When you looked closely, when you saw him still, he was a man beneath the scaly skin—beneath the magic. Just a man.

Belle swallowed, trying to make her voice into more than a croak.

"You don't. You don't disgust me." She weighed the words having spoken them. Truth, against her last chance of the life she'd expected to live. "You frighten me." His hand dropped away from her face. "You frighten everybody, and I think you like it that way."

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, straightening. His hands fell to his sides.

"Then, the deal must be completed. Consummated." He drew out the word, tasting it, miming the long sound with pinched fingertips, the gesture dry with self-mockery. A sneer that was not aimed at her. "Such things... matter."

What did he _want_ of her?! Disappointed to find her a virgin! Reluctant to bed her now that he'd wed her! That stung Belle's pride, even as it eased her apprehension. Why marry her if he didn't _want_ her? To humble her father? To remind people of his power? Or had it been a passing whim, one he already regretted?

Well, none of that had anything to do with her. She kept her word—she'd honour her deal. The rest was up to him!

Belle slipped from the bed and put the tiara and pins carefully on top of her dress. She found her old book with her fingertips and felt the spine, broken with years of love. It was a book about doing the right thing—even when other people didn't, and even when you weren't entirely sure what the right thing was. That was when you should let your heart lead you, and when you needed to be brave.

She made up her mind and got into bed. Rumplestiltskin, frowning, bowed his head over his hands and went back to playing with the white cord.

The bedclothes were heavy. Belle wriggled down into a mass of feather pillows, tugging her nightgown straight as she went. The featherbed felt like settling on a cloud. The linens had the faint, fresh smell of lavender. The moment her head found a comfortable position on a pillow, Belle was less interested in what Rumplestiltskin planned to do with her than in going to sleep. But bravery only took her so far. She wouldn't take her eyes off him: couldn't possibly sleep until he made his intentions clear.

He went over to the fire and poured mead into the cup she'd used earlier, then stood holding it for a while before putting it back on the tray, completely untouched. Eyelids growing heavy, Belle watched him, her mind drifting away from the terrors of the day towards welcoming, warm oblivion.

She managed to snatch herself back from the edge of exhaustion when Rumplestiltskin approached and, arranging his leather coat with meticulous care, sat beside her. His head was bowed, steepled fingertips tapping together.

"I can guarantee your pleasure. If you wish." He made a small flourish in her direction with the fingers of his right hand—a mockery of his public demonstrations.

"With magic?" Belle's voice was thick with drowsiness. "That's cheating."

Rumplestiltskin didn't seem to know what to say to that. It took him a long moment to muster his reply.

"Then I will be brief and see to it that you feel no pain. A wedding gift," he added, with the barest trace of his devilish smile.

"Another one?" Belle pushed herself up onto her elbows as he lifted the blankets to join her, still wearing his leather coat, boots, and all. She shuffled her way to the middle of the bed to make room.

"Am I not known for my generosity?"

"No," she said, too befuddled to play his games. Her voice was gravelly, slow, and unladylike. It made her sound sulky. "You're not." Of all the trials she might imagine for her wedding night, it had never occurred to her that she might be so groggy, so overwhelmed, and so confused by her new husband's attitude that she didn't care _what_ he did to her as long as it was quickly followed by a good night's sleep.

Belle missed the moment when magic turned his outfit into a grey silk nightgown. Had she missed it in a blink? Or was magic too fast to see with the human eye? She felt it, though—like a breeze tickling her skin. Then she felt relieved that he didn't expect her to embrace him wearing stiff leather, boots and all.

"Well then," Rumplestiltskin murmured. Belle pulled a pillow more comfortably beneath her cheek and waited, apprehensive but not afraid. Her heart pounded, her breath noisy and shallow, but this alarm was more the memory of fear than reality. She was already half in dreams, lulled by fatigue and by how he'd behaved thus far. He might not be chivalrous, might not be pleasant, might crow and startle her, but he clearly didn't intend to mistreat her tonight. Besides, his hesitancy when he touched her—fingertips on her upper arm, a tiny stroke—moved Belle in ways she had no words for. He needn't hesitate. He could just have his way with her. But he didn't.

Rumplestiltskin's fingers moved timidly down past her elbow. He placed his open hand at her waist and inched himself closer. No more than that, their heads resting a chaste body's width apart on the pillows. She couldn't see his face—the light behind him left his features a shadow. A shadow shaped like an ordinary man.

Belle could hear him breathing, shallow and quick, the same as her. Really, though, was she supposed to give him some sign of her readiness? To initiate proceedings with a touch, some discreetly-whispered word of encouragement? Was this the moment to confess that she didn't know what to do? She didn't want to lose her dignity in a fluster of embarrassment and fumbled words. Not now.

His hand was warm. Pleasant. Belle concentrated on that—on how it felt to be touched. Rumplestiltskin was reverential in his care, moving his hand in uncertain stages from her waist back to her arm, then to her shoulder, then to her cheek. Fingertips dragging downwards. Repeating. Stroking her, yet hardly daring to. He paused there, hand shaking.

Was he afraid?

The idea amazed her. How could anyone as powerful as Rumplestiltskin fear anything?

But he _was_ trembling, unsteady and breathless as he brought himself nearer to her and, so softly, pressed his lips against hers.

Belle timidly pushed back, copying him, eyes open wide.

Gaston kissed her once, returning from battle. He'd worked his tongue against her lips and quite revolted her with his clumsy, grasping hands. Her first kiss and he'd been a thoughtless oaf.

Rumplestiltskin did no more than brush lips with her and withdraw again, sighing gently. She'd expected his breath to be rank, matching those ugly, rotten teeth, but he smelled only of herbs and very strong spirits.

So, her second kiss was much sweeter than her first.

Emboldened, Rumplestiltskin propped himself beside her, closer, head on hand, and ran his other hand down her arm again, exploring the fabric of her nightgown. Then down to her waist, stroking onward to her hip where he lingered and tightened his grip until his hand stopped trembling.

All the candles went out at once. There was still the fire, that comforting glow behind him, but Belle could barely see him now. She could feel him watching her, though.

He reached down under the bedclothes, flattened palm following her leg until he found the hem of her nightgown. He gathered it, pulling it up into a bundle at her thighs, baring almost everything. Belle held her breath until he stopped, then couldn't hide the sound when she gulped for air afterwards. Although Rumplestiltskin did it gently, Belle sensed an urgency that she didn't recognise. His impatience with an awkward task, perhaps, but more than that; a sense that something was about to happen—that his choice was made and he planned to see this through. That frightened her, but it was the irrational dread of the unknown, not the visceral fear of the man who lay beside her.

Belle wanted him to know that.

"Sh-Should I do something?" Her voice betrayed her screwed-up courage, wobbling like a tearful child's. "I don't know how to..."

"Nothing," murmured Rumplestiltskin. "Or anything you like." That seemed to cover it. Belle nodded bravely. "Are you ready?"

Not knowing ho to be ready but not knowing how to explain that to him, she nodded again, resolute.

"I won't hurt you."

"I know."

"Don't be afraid."

"I'm not." Not of this. Of tomorrow, yes—of the life she'd promised herself to, but not of this. He was trembling, and he wasn't going to hurt her.

"Good."

Rumplestiltskin brought his hand slowly up her thigh to burrow beneath the bunched nightdress. Belle held herself rigid so as not to flinch when the touch came, but the sense of violation she'd half-expected never arrived. She felt a curious distance from it all, as though she were dreaming already and merely watching this, watching herself—a dream-within-dream Belle, being touched by the monster who, so gentle in the darkness, was no monster at all.

He brushed her thighs with the lightest of touches, a tickle by way of a warning, allowing her to chart the careful progress of his hand towards the apex of her thighs.

She knew the way of it, enough to open her legs and let his hand seek the most private place, between. Her own hands had been there—she'd guessed how it would feel if someone else touched her. But even like this, with his hand creeping towards her, she didn't know how the thing was meant to happen—how they went from this to him being inside her. To it being all over.

Prepared for the sensation of warm skin against her outer petals, for a touch not unlike her own, Belle yelped and jerked away when, instead of dry fingers, Rumplestiltskin touched her with an open palm that was slick and thick with something very, very cold.

He leapt backwards at her cry—scrambled almost clear out of bed and onto the floor. He caught himself on the bottom bedpost, crouching, his voice cracking as he demanded,

"What?!"

"It's cold and wet!" So much for keeping her dignity! "What did you... What _was_ that?!"

"To save you discomfort," he answered, affronted. "What else, madam?" He'd dragged the covers away with him when he sprang out of reach. Belle groped for the edge, trying in vain to pull them back over her bare legs. "A balm to soothe you! Are you so innocent as all that, girl?!"

Belle dragged herself up to sitting, his peevish tone cutting through all her doubts and questions. She wouldn't be spoken to like that when _he_ was in the wrong.

"My name is Belle," she answered him, hotly. " _Belle_. And..." And her indignation died in the moment of hesitation, common sense winning out over her smarting pride. He'd offered her this. No pain. He had a balm to smooth the way between them. He was being kind—or trying to be. She took a careful breath and moderated her own tone of voice, forgiving him for being clumsy, even if she wasn't quite ready to forgive him for embarrassing her. "No, I'm not. It's just cold, that's all, and you could have warned me first."

"This," Rumplestiltskin said, shuffling back to her, on her right side this time, and dragging the blankets with him, "Is proving to be every bit as tiresome as I remember. Let's be done, shall we?"

Belle flopped back into the pillows. She arranged herself flat on her back and pulled up her nightdress like before. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could get some sleep!

The scent of the balm on his hand put her in mind of green plants, a hint of lavender or... Rumplestiltskin arranged himself beside her, draped his leg over her, and nudged her knee with his own. She opened her legs a little way, glad to know what he expected of her, and waited for him to try again. She was just trying to decide how she felt about having him squashed up against her side when he brought his hand up between her legs, easing it into the space between her thighs and pressing his palm right against her private place, like before. This time, the balm was warm and pleasant instead of a cold shock.

She had a husband capable of listening, then. That was a relief.

Rumplestiltskin stroked her with his open hand until he'd spread the balm all over her. Then, leaning more of his weight into her, he worked his fingers into her folds, making sure to coat every part of her.  
Belle felt a shiver coming over her and clenched her fists, her teeth; she didn't want to scare him off again so they'd have to begin once more. But her tension was enough to make him pause, hand quite still, and watch her face a moment. He must be able to see better in the dark than she could. She nodded.

He slid a finger inside her, eliciting another involuntary twitch from Belle. Slick, the finger went in smoothly, stroked a while, in and out of her, in and out, before returning with a second finger. It was the oddest thing she'd ever felt, but hardly distressing. Her blush came on, rising up hot and damp when Rumplestiltskin took his hand away and started using the stuff on _himself_. She'd only just realised what he was doing when he stopped, reached over her, shifted himself on top of her, belly to belly and in between her legs. Reaching down, he clasped her thigh and urged her to move it—to spread her legs wider, give him more room. Belle let him guide her, relieved to find that she could learn this in silence.

Fingers again, teasing her now. Finding his way, dipping inside her with yet more of the balm, then... Belle pressed her lips together, determined not to make any sound. Rumplestiltskin used his hand to guide his member and pushed it inside her.

It felt nothing like his fingers.

Her body fought him, tightened, her legs trying to clamp shut. That only slid her feet to the backs of Rumplestiltskin's knees, made him slip out of her passage and gasp, surging towards her, rubbing the length of his member against her slippery flesh. He grabbed a handful of the pillow beside her head and froze there, shuddering.

It felt strange, wet, new, cramped, and wholly terrifying. But it was not—Belle was very clear as Rumplestiltskin regained his composure and drew back slightly, breathing heavily—it was not unpleasant. That he could easily have made it so, whether by cruelty or carelessness, was foremost in Belle's mind as he settled with her again, his face near her face and his hair tickling her cheek. He pressed at her opening again, and his fingers were there too, guiding himself in with no less care than before. This time, Belle kept still, and he stayed there. In her.

Chewing her lip, snatching her breaths between his cautious movements, Belle learned how to let her body go limp under him. That made it better. She thought he nodded slightly, felt him ease deeper; thought she heard him catch a breath as though to say something. But they were both concentrating entirely on what he was doing between her legs; Belle on the sensation and Rumplestiltskin, she supposed, on being as gentle as he could.

There was no pain—not if Belle narrowed her understanding of the word somewhat, to exclude this feeling of being filled and stretched in ways that her body didn't know. It made her ache, deep down, a shadow of her monthly pains. She wanted to fidget to ease it but didn't want him to stop again; to have to start this all over again when she was just growing used to it.

Rumplestiltskin went still and waited, finding her mouth again and, this time, dragging his lips across hers from one side to the other in a kiss that spoke of his longing to do more. She was about to return the kiss when he turned his head aside.

"This is enough," he breathed in her ear, the struggle for stillness making his voice shake. "We've done enough, my lady. Enough to satisfy a contract. Shall I stop?" He moved his hand on the sheet beside her, already bracing to withdraw.

"It seems a waste after all that," Belle said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage—as if she did this sort of thing every day. She knew there was more than this, more than just him being inside her for a moment. The man stirred himself to excitement this way, his pleasure coming when he left his seed in the woman. She didn't think he'd done anything like that, yet. She was breathless and overheated. A bit squashed and quite embarrassed. But determined. "It is our wedding night." When Rumplestiltskin tensed, surprised, Belle was appalled to find herself trying not to laugh. Laugh! With the Dark One in her like a dog down a rabbit hole! "I think we should finish what we started."

So saying, Belle fidgeted under him until she had her feet firmly planted on the bed, her knees wider apart than before and, she hoped, more welcoming. It was certainly more comfortable.

Rumplestiltskin moaned softly, his whole body stiffening at her movement and starting to shake again when she fell still. He shifted his weight and rocked into her, driving himself deeper inside. That took her breath away, but her body was no longer trying to deny him. The ache faded to almost nothing, and the fullness began to feel familiar.

Levering himself up on both arms, hands planted either side of her shoulders, Rumplestiltskin began to thrust between her legs. Immediately, Belle missed the warmth of the former closeness; felt the loss and reached for him. Hesitant, afraid of doing something wrong, she touched his face. Fingertips, just as he'd done, then her palm against his cheek when he made no objection. Far from it—pausing in his movements, Rumplestiltskin turned his head towards her touch, sighing raggedly, and left a wet, lingering kiss in the centre of her palm.

Reassured, Belle let her hands wander where her curiosity led—first one in his hair, silky-soft and wavy, then the other behind his back, feeling the slip-slide of silk between her palm and his hot skin as he moved. Faster, with urgency now, rocking Belle with him. Grasping a handful of his nightshirt, her fist clenching in time with his thrusts, Belle spilt burning, sideways tears of relief and elation and bit her lip to keep herself silent.

It was not—most definitely _not_ —the nightmare she'd feared it would be. Nor was it the sweet dream of the romantic tales she'd found in so many books, some dreamy euphemism for marital harmony. This was more than that, too big to be captured in a single thought. This was something _real_ , joining her body with Rumplestiltskin; this was the true marriage contract, spelt out in private deeds and more binding than any public words.

He was right. This mattered very, very much. Dreamy, content, Belle let her hand slip down to the small of his back and close in a possessive grip where the curve of his buttocks began.

Rumplestiltskin shivered all over, his steady movements faltering. He gulped, followed by another noise that sounded like a man clenching his teeth together and trying not to make any sound at all. He surged into her one last time, stiffening, then panting, sagging, catching himself as if he'd been about to slump on top of her. And then he stopped, it stopped, Rumplestiltskin taking himself out of her body with as much care when he entered. He sagged into her waiting arms, while Belle became aware of a renewed, griping ache in her lower belly. As before, the pain faded quickly. She was left with the awareness that she'd been full—with the lingering heat between their bodies. With a husband who nuzzled at her hair on the pillow, clutched urgently at her upper arms, before rolling away to her right, a sharp and determined motion that utterly broke the spell.

They lay still, their breathing becoming slower. Quieter. What they'd done already felt like part of a dream—barely plausible, let alone real.

Belle lay quietly until the silence made her uncomfortable, then turned her head on the pillow. She made out the reflection of the firelight in Rumplestiltskin's unblinking eyes—could see that he was staring up at the canopy, lips slightly parted, his left hand beginning to fidget on his chest.

"And now I am your wife," Belle said, as much because she needed to hear it said aloud as to attempt conversation with him. If she turned it into words, it made a sort of sense of the unknowable; of the future at this man's side that she couldn't imagine, any more than she could have pictured what they'd just done.

It started here, with this.

"That you are." Rumplestiltskin had his breath back, but his words, like hers, were hushed. "The most..." He struggled a moment for the word he wanted. "The most everlasting of contracts."

Belle, too, struggled for words to fit the moment. She was so tired, so out of sorts. So relieved and dismayed all at once because this experience was profound, but was crude and awkward nonsense as well. Suddenly shy, overcome, she tried to push her nightdress down to cover her legs. To her surprise, Rumplestiltskin immediately leaned over to untangle the bedclothes for her, drawing the sheet up to her chest in a sort of tent while she arranged herself with a bit more dignity. Then he covered her, pulling the covers up underneath Belle's chin.

"Thank you," she said, small-voiced. "For being kind to me."

Rumplestiltskin grunted. Acknowledgement? Dismissal? Belle didn't know, only that conversation was false in this quiet after-place, and that their brief and awkward understanding had evaporated.

He swung his legs over the far side of the bed. By the time his feet touched the ground, he was back in his leather coat and creaking boots.

"I need not trouble your bed again," he said, striding quickly to the door and turning the key. "Rest well, my lady." The door banged shut behind him, brusque as his words.

Belle turned onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them. Alone in the dark, she whispered her own name—the name he constantly dodged and denied her—the whisper becoming a sob. Then, at last, she let the tears come.


	6. A Gift of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning after, and a gift of gold.

Belle slept late, not stirring until the innkeeper's wife shook her shoulder. As soon as Belle raised her head, the woman left without saying a word.

Groggy, Belle took in as much of the room as she could without moving from her cosy spot among the pillows. There was a tray of food on the little table between the armchairs, and the bathtub steamed invitingly.

She'd slept strangely—deeply, but not enough to relieve the exhaustion of the past few days. A nervous glance over her shoulder reassured Belle that she was alone before she sat up to face the new day. Rumplestiltskin hadn't returned to sleep beside her.

 _Did_ he sleep?

Belle reluctantly pushed the bedclothes away and sat up. The butterfly-stain of blood in the lap of her nightgown made her gasp—she wasn't due her monthly visit for a while yet. But before she even had time to be alarmed, Belle remembered reading about the blood; that it sometimes happened the first time. Doctors thought it was a healthy sign. She'd heard dark gossip among older girls about the pain of a wedding night, but Belle preferred to rely on books. She'd never read anything about women bleeding to death afterwards, so she'd be silly to take fright now, when there was less blood than she saw every month.

There was little discomfort, no pain, and the bleeding had already stopped; the stain on her gown was dry. Even so, she felt soiled and strange—aware of her body in a new way. She gave in to the temptation of the bath.

It should have been a treat and a novelty—the steaming hot water up to her chest. But at home, she'd always had a woman near to shoo away intruders. She bathed and dried herself as quickly as she could. It felt much better.

Yesterday's travel had been an ordeal in her constricting dress. Today, Belle pulled a plain dress out of her travelling chest and chose her oldest, softest underthings. Thick, dark blue woollen stockings looked strange when she stuffed her feet into her satin slippers, but who was likely to see them? They'd been made to match her wedding dress, white satin, but the brief walk across the wet and muddy yard had ruined them. They'd dried out overnight. Lastly, she combed her hair through carefully, pulling it back into a single thick braid at the nape of her neck and tying it with a short strip of black ribbon.

At last, she felt herself again – Belle in a simple blue dress, not painted with falsehoods. Comfortable in her own skin and ready to face the day. Rumplestiltskin would have to take her as he found her.

Breakfast was a pewter platter of dried fruits, shelled nuts, and sliced cheeses. Belle didn't realise how nervous she was until she tried to eat, finding it difficult even to swallow. Tea from the silver pot helped a few bites down. There were two porcelain cups and saucers, but only one meal.

She hoped Rumplestiltskin would come and join her for a cup, then immediately felt guilty when she also hoped that he wouldn't show his face at all.

Why had he left her alone last night after they'd... After? Things had gone well, hadn't they? Rumplestiltskin had satisfied himself, hadn't he? Had she misunderstood his behaviour, or done something wrong?

Now she regretted being too overwrought to accept more advice when Elena offered. Elena and the blacksmith had nine children and always laughed together. If anyone had mastered the mysteries of marriage, it was Elena and Dimitri. Belle hadn't known which questions she _needed_ to ask, and she hadn't really wanted to talk about her impending marriage at all. She hadn't wanted to _think_ about lying with the Dark One, in case fearing the worst undid her determination to be brave. Now, the consummation behind her and the fearful mystery of it reduced to a mere fact, it seemed odd that it needed to be a mystery at all. It practically seemed ordinary. Laughably simple.

She was exactly the same person she'd been yesterday. Had she honestly expected otherwise? That losing her virginity would mark her in some visible way?

Silly.

Comforted by the tea and lulled by the fire, Belle rested her eyes and thought of home. Where would Papa be now? There was much to rebuild, and before they could do that the money would need to be found. Had Gaston taken the silver of her dowry as Rumplestiltskin said, or had he left it for her people? And what about Lotte? Suppose she was still crying with no-one to comfort her? People lost patience with Lotte quickly, thinking her foolish. And she _was_ foolish, quite often, but only because she had a big heart and felt loyalty the way other people felt their greatest passions.

She would miss them—miss home. Yesterday, afraid that Rumplestiltskin had darker plans for her, the future hadn't seemed relevant. All that mattered was showing courage from one moment to the next. Now she truly was his wife, ready to go with him to his home and live the life he spoke of, comfortable and protected. But would he let her send a message home to let Papa know she was safe and well? It didn't seem likely. Rumplestiltskin had gone out of his way to make sure that everyone, including Belle, feared the worst.

Poor Papa.

The knock at the door almost made her spill her tea across her lap. But, as before, Rumplestiltskin waited for Belle's leave to enter. This time her voice remained steady when she called out, but she couldn't hide that she was hoarse with tiredness and strain; still croaky and stuffed from crying herself to sleep.

She hoped he couldn't tell.

When she made to stand up, Rumplestiltskin waved her back into her seat, distractedly. He too was dressed for travel, his cloak already damp from going outside, with fine raindrops sparkling in his hair, leaving it lank about his face.

He stared at Belle with one hand still on the latch, unsure about coming in.

"Good morning," Belle ventured. "There's some tea left."

Rumplestiltskin nodded, taking it for the invitation that it was. He left the door ajar and walked stiffly to the spare seat, perching at the edge rather than making himself comfortable. Belle poured tea for him and proffered it, pleased that she didn't rattle the cup in the saucer. Nodding thanks, Rumplestiltskin took the cup and closed his eyes to inhale the steam.

"Have we far to go today?" Belle was determined to do everything she could to lay her fears to rest. They hadn't been a reliable guide so far. Asking him reasonable questions didn't seem to anger him—only to surprise him. She wanted to understand the future she faced. "To your estate?"

"My castle." He meant the correction to sound boastful. The attempt fell flat, and Rumplestiltskin looked sheepish. "We'll be there tonight."

Belle could find nothing frightening, now, about the still figure beside her. Rumplestiltskin's sharply contrasting moods startled her, his appearance disturbed her, and his cruelty to her father distressed her, but she saw nothing of that giggling, grimacing, mocking beast in him as he sat there staring into his teacup. He looked glum and a bit weary. He started conjuring sugar lumps out of the air, one at a time between thumb and forefinger, and dropping them daintily into his tea. He stopped at six, but only because the cup was about to overflow.

Did he regret the deal he'd made? Belle guessed that she'd been no grand prize in his bed last night if she wasn't even sure she'd satisfied him.

Well, that would just serve him right for marrying a woman he knew nothing about, wouldn't it? He could have taken the gold instead. He could have asked for her hand properly—got to know her instead of stealing her away in a blind rush. If he wanted her to know what she was doing in bed, he should have told her, shouldn't he?

But Belle didn't want the feeble and bitter triumph of outrage. She wanted to learn who this man was and what he wanted of her; what kind of father he would be to their children. She wanted to know why he'd bargained for the hand of a provincial maiden if he preferred to lie with a woman of the world. She wanted to discover why he couldn't keep his hands from fidgeting for five minutes together and why, the moment he stopped prancing and play-acting, he looked so sad.

"They say that you live in a castle on a dark island, surrounded by a vast lake with waters as black as midnight," she said. It was only one of many stories about him. Now she would learn which ones were true.

Rumplestiltskin blinked slowly, cocking his head.

"I do have a big fish pond," he allowed, brightly. Then he looked apologetic, a twinkle of mirth warming his eyes. "People tend to exaggerate a good story." He waved a hand, mimicking a boastful, "I survived a visit to the Dark One and overcame his terrible fish pond."

Belle tried to keep a straight face.

"A fish pond isn't as frightening as a vast lake of midnight, no."

"That depends on the fish," he shot back, and Belle saw the upwards quirk of his lips for just a moment before he concealed the smile behind his teacup. At last, he took a small sip. He grimaced as if he found it too sweet.

"Well, good. I'm far too tired for a long swim."

He looked straight at her, then, turning in his chair and putting his cup back on the tray. Daylight added peculiar shades of green and gold to his eyes, picking out the colours that made him inhuman, but it was hard to be afraid of him when his expression was one of uncertainty. Almost… concerned?

"You slept poorly?"

"No," said Belle quickly, not wanting him to blame the other occupants of the inn for disturbing her. She'd slept better than she'd been able to in weeks, despite the comings and goings on the stairs. Despite everything. But one night of rest wasn't enough to make up for the long strain of the war. She'd forced herself to be brave and think of others for so long now because of the war. She'd hidden her fear from everyone, right up to the moment she climbed into Rumplestiltskin's carriage. Into his _bed_. Now her home was safe, Papa was safe, she'd done her marital duty, and Belle could pretend no longer that the effort hadn't cost her. "Did you sleep well, sir?" Her voice became timid before the sentence was out.

"I need little rest. You shall have all the sleep you need when we reach my castle. You'll want for nothing. I promise."

As if he felt he'd gone too far, said too much, Rumplestiltskin rose abruptly and left the fireside. Watching him, Belle realised that he was only slightly taller than she was—not a big man at all. Raw, pure power made Rumplestiltskin seem a giant to the other senses, to that human instinct for self-preservation, but when Belle honestly looked at him—when his back was turned, and she could see neither his complexion nor his eyes—he seemed harmless.

Belle turned away before he caught her staring.

There was a rustle and the flap of cloth behind her.

"You bled my lady."

She turned quickly and stood up, shocked to see him holding up her soiled nightgown, unfolded to reveal the stain. Blushing, she dashed to snatch it away from him, but Rumpelstiltskin held her gently at bay with the barrier of his left arm, the nightgown hanging at the far reach of his other, outstretched arm.

"A powerful thing," he said, half-smiling as he looked at the mirrored stain. "The blood of the marriage bed. A powerful thing." He sounded pleased.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" So outraged that she sounded shrill, Belle made another grab for her gown. Rumplestiltskin danced backwards, beyond her reach, grinning at her with those filthy teeth.

"I have a use for this, dearie," he said, wagging his finger at her.

"Don't be horrid," she spat, shocked by her anger even as it consumed her. "It's just a stain, and on a new dress, too, and I'll probably never manage to scrub it clean. It's a waste, that's all." She stuck out her hand, demanding the return of her property.

Rumplestiltskin pouted.

"No need to be dainty," he crooned. "Here." He stroked his palm over the fabric, over the stain, wiping it away. "There now. All is mended." He offered her the nightgown with one of those twittering, high-pitched giggles. "Good as new!" Watching her, amused, he waited to see what she'd do.

Belle snatched her property from him and bundled it in her arms, furious. Her blood was no man's business! How could he be so gracious one moment and so... so _beastly_ the next?!

To hide the tears brimming in her eyes, Belle turned quickly to her trunk, stuffing the nightgown and her wedding things in carelessly, then struggling to shut the lid on top of them. She couldn't bear snivelling like a child over a quarrel, but she couldn't stop the tears rolling down her cheeks, fast and hot with humiliation and hurt.

"Child," said Rumplestiltskin, suddenly standing to close behind her. He spoke gently now, voice deeper, the way he'd spoken in the darkness. "Magic knows naught of shame. There's protection in the blood of your innocence. I'll make you a gift."

She faced him, tears flowing freely and dripping onto her dress.

"Another one?" It was half a laugh, half a sob.

Rumplestiltskin turned his face away quickly.

"Another one," he agreed, then struck a pompous pose, hands raised. "May I not shower my bride with gifts?"

"Please, don't mock me," Belle choked. She was a mess, and now he'd seen her cry. "Please. I've paid your price. I'm doing my best. Don't play games at my expense."

Producing a silk handkerchief from nowhere, Rumplestiltskin offered it to her, dangling it delicately from his fingertips. His long, black fingernails were ugly and ragged against the bleached white. His expression was pained. Belle took the cloth ungraciously and dabbed at her cheeks, sniffing. She felt utterly foolish now that he seemed sorry for upsetting her. What was blood on a piece of cloth? What was the point of shame about it when Rumplestiltskin had been where the blood came from? What was it to her if he wanted to steal a stain?

"You're tired," he said, gallantly refusing the return of the handkerchief with a raised palm. "Overwrought. Understandable." Belle scoffed and folded her arms, hugging herself and feeling suddenly cold. Rumplestiltskin shifted from foot to foot, anxiously looking for the right thing to say. "We can leave when you're ready."

Overwrought! She hadn't been! Five minutes ago, she'd been filled with hope, determined to search for common ground with this husband of hers—to begin their new life together on the best possible terms. Now, Belle felt damp, sullen, and childish; upset, and worst of all, she needed to begin all over again trying to understand him!

At least she knew that Rumplestiltskin kept his word. That was something.

"I'm ready now," she managed, hoping that coolness would pass for dignity.

Rumplestiltskin bowed, then walked stiffly to the door. It was a wonder that he could walk at all in those boots. They came up over his knees, laced tighter than anyone ought to be able to bear. Other than his cloak, he wore leather from head to toe. Some of it had scales.

Belle followed him down the stairs and back through the inn's common room. Though it was less crowded than before, people still stared as they passed. Once they left there would be new stories to exaggerate—ones about Rumplestiltskin and his pale, tear-stained young bride; about a wedding night.

Why _had_ he brought her to an inn when he owned a castle? He'd appeared in her bedroom by magic, so it stood to reason that he could take them both straight home.

"Do they keep the room just for you?" Belle stepped out into the driving sleet, lifting her arm to shield her eyes. She felt she should make an effort to mend the quarrel, even if she hadn't been the one to start it. She wasn't used to quarrelling with anyone, and it was no way to begin a marriage.

"Yes." As if only just noticing the weather, he hastily unfastened his cloak and draped it across her back. Belle nodded her thanks, growing more confused by the moment.

She couldn't decide what sort of mood he was in. He didn't sound cross or impatient, but his blunt reply deterred her from inquiring further.

Did he mind those stories the people here would spin? That his wedding night would become another legend? The stories wouldn't be kind to him. And for all that Belle had wept her heart out last night and appeared with blotchy eyes this morning, those stories would be wrong.

She had to stop and stare for a moment at the carriage. Glossy black with gold-leaf decoration, ornate to the point of absurdity, it stood there without horses or coachman. While she'd been content to accept the fact yesterday, having more to worry about then, her head was crowded with questions now.

How did it stay on the road? How did Rumplestiltskin see where they were going when he rode inside? Did he steer at all? If not, could magic... think for itself?

"Lady?" Apologetic, he gestured to the door. "You'll grow cold."

He allowed her to clamber up unaided, and choose her seat. Belle was grateful for that—that he didn't try to fuss or touch her while she was upset. As before, he sat at her right side, giving her just as much space as he had when her dress filled half the carriage. As they began to move, Belle guessed that he sat next to her because sitting opposite would mean looking at her all day.

As before, the journey was unnaturally smooth and quiet. Belle cursed herself for not remembering to bring a book with her. She'd lost the thought in the argument about her nightdress, which only added to her annoyance with Rumplestiltskin now. Another full day of travel, with nothing to do but listen to this silence? But she hadn't yet mustered enough courage to try again—to talk to him. She feared dissolving into floods of tears if he teased her again.

After a while, Rumplestiltskin offered her a small silver flask.

"A nip to keep out the cold?"

"No. Thank you." She watched from the corner of her eye as he drank deeply. It was strong stuff—she could smell it, the same spirit she'd smelled on his breath last night. Had he steadied his nerves before coming to her bed? Remembering how much a cup of mead had soothed her own nerves, Belle melted a little. "You could have asked me for my nightdress," she said quietly.

Rumplestiltskin put his hand over his heart, exaggerating a chastened look into something grotesque. 

"Does my wife reproach me?" he asked, as though they had an audience.

"She does, sir." Belle pretended not to notice the pantomime. She never could stay angry at people, and sulking embarrassed her before long. She didn't want to sit here stewing, resenting him over a trifle. But it wasn't the nightdress that upset her, was it? It wasn't even the blood, but that he'd made fun of it. That the man who trembled and hesitated in their first embrace was the same man who taunted her with that infantile glee. "I do. You didn't need to be unkind."

"I hurt your feelings."

"Yes."

Still holding that ridiculous pose, he sagged slightly, fingers curling inward. He recovered quickly, beaming.

"Then the remedy is a gift!"

That was nonsense, and Belle knew it, but she could see that he'd convinced himself entirely with that breezy declaration. Before she could think of an answer, Rumplestiltskin reached beneath the cushioned seat and brought out a wooden chest. It was no more than a rough box; unpolished pine with a small brass catch. A humble artisan might keep his tools in it. It was out of place amidst the riches of cloth and gold.

Rumplestiltskin placed the box on the opposite seat, reverential, and lifted the lid. Belle couldn't help herself—she held her breath to see what was inside.

"Straw?" She stared.

Rumplestiltskin smiled faintly, reaching into the box. Belle recognised the simplest tools of the spinner's art—the spindle and distaff. The latter was already dressed with a white fibre that looked more like finest wool than anything one might coax from humble straw, and the spindle was half wound with a thread of pure gold. The one clearly turned into the other.

Without looking at her, Rumplestiltskin began to spin.

"I thought you used a wheel," Belle breathed, quite taken out of herself as she watched him work. He did so with a practised economy of movement, his fingers deft in the twist and delicate with the draw. Only a master craftsman worked with such ease. "They say that you use a magic spinning wheel."

"Oh, yes." He spoke softly. Absorbed, watching the spindle. "Just a wheel. Anyone can do it if they know how."

But only Rumplestiltskin knew how to spin straw into gold.

For all that Belle stared and marvelled, paying close attention because it was so beautiful to watch, she could never catch the moment when his magic worked—when the smooth white thread he'd drawn from the straw became pure gold. But it did, and the magic whispered in the air around his hands, invisible.

When the spindle was full, Rumplestiltskin set aside the distaff and broke off a length of new gold thread. Belle wanted to touch it, to know how it felt, but Rumplestiltskin was busy again. For a while, he only seemed to play with the gold in his hands—testing and smoothing it, twisting and crumpling, as if trying to know it as intimately and carefully as he'd known Belle in the dark. Then, satisfied, he wrapped the thread around and around his smallest left finger and made a fist, right hand covering his left and squeezing tight.

Opening his hands again, palms upward, Rumplestiltskin wore a ring on his little finger. It was a narrow band of pure, polished gold and yet, as she leaned nearer to admire this new marvel, Belle saw the warming tint of iron, too.

No. Belle's realisation came quietly and simply. It was blood. Hers.

Sliding the ring from his finger, Rumplestiltskin inspected it, turning it this way and that, then turned himself stiffly to face her. He tried and failed to look Belle in the eye.

"My lady," he said, solemnly, holding out his hand for hers—her left. Belle gave it, hesitantly, staring as he slipped the band onto her ring finger. A perfect fit. "Innocence protects you while you wear this." He lifted her hand to the level of her chest and then, hesitating very slightly, bent to kiss it. He lingered for a moment with his lips against the back of her knuckles, eyes closed, then murmured, "I return to you what is yours."

"Thank you." Bewildered, flattered and charmed all at once, Belle squeezed his hand to show her sincerity. The gift touched her deeply, healing something he'd broken with his thoughtless teasing. He looked so uncertain as he drew away. She'd accused him of being sordid when _this_ was his motive all along? "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Rumplestiltskin nodded, more vexed by her thanks than he'd been by her scolding. He went back to his spinning, looking relieved. He fidgeted until he got back into the rhythm of his work. Belle went on watching until the distaff lay idle again and he held another spindle fully wound with gold, tossing idly from hand to hand while gazing out of the window.

They didn't speak again all day, but the silence was more tranquil than before. Belle didn't miss her book again—he'd given her a lot to think about.

It was long past nightfall before the road beneath the wheels became cobbles again, their pace slowing. Belle pulled the curtain aside and tried to see where they were, but there were no bright lights of welcome this time. The carriage didn't stop. She glimpsed a few faces, frozen and staring as they passed by. It looked like a small town, and as if they were expected. Heavy snowfall blurred anything else she might have seen.

"Is this your home?"

"My fiefdom," Rumplestiltskin boasted, spreading his hands and smiling. "From here to the river, from here to the mountains. Yours now." He pointed to the window. The last of the snow-blurred figures was a little girl in a red bonnet. Then they passed through a stone archway, the cobbles ending abruptly, and they were back onto a tree-lined forest road. "The castle isn't far now."

So, he really did live in a castle. And he did spin straw into gold. 

Belle had another shy peek at her new ring, nervous excitement rising. Fear, yes, but anticipation too, and hope. The terrible stories about Rumplestiltskin might be wrong, just as the tale told of their wedding night would be all wrong. The truth was theirs alone, and they'd made their beginning together.

She rubbed her finger over the band of gold and innocence and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> **Transformative Works Statement (a work in progress itself)**
> 
> **My Words: Hands Off!**  
>  Reuse/redistribute/republish/archive/publish/translate/record my words for an audience? You need my written permission for anything more than short, fair-use excerpts, as would be appropriate to academic or media publications (think book reviews, literary citations). If it's marked WIP, my answer will always be 'no'. Taking my words anyway then expecting me to consent afterwards because it's a done-deal is ugly, and has happened more times than I can live with already. Don't.
> 
>  **Your Own Fanworks: Enjoy!**  
>  Anything you can create from scratch yourself based on my works/ideas/characters/worldbuilding/etc? Fine with me as long as you aren't making money from it. You may reproduce appropriate sections of my written dialogue if your fanwork strictly needs it - for example, a remix of a specific scene based around the same script. No need to credit/link, but please do cover your butt against unfair accusations of plagiarism if your work ends up looking anything like mine.


End file.
